Promises to Keep
by Caroline Jessamine
Summary: Michael loses the woman he loves when she sacrifices her life for his to break Anson's stranglehold. He questions himself until Fiona is free, but peace is impossible. Trapped in a violent maze with old enemies, has Fi lost Michael forever?
1. Chapter 1

Promises to Keep

These entertaining characters do not belong to me. They belong to the USA network, the genius of Matt Nix, his writers and the talented actors who give us human faces to see them more clearly. With thanks for letting me borrow them for a while.

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Fiona's words echoed loudly over the dull roar of wind and rising tide. He heard them as clearly as if she was sitting next to him, her arm through his, her hand on his, her shoulder tucked against him. Sunrise waited beyond the thin edge of pale grey light barely visible on the cobalt horizon, as the fading night was about to transform into a new day of unknowns.

He sat on damp sand, ignorant of the faint chill, ignorant of his hunger or thirst. He'd arrived as night was falling, hiding his presence. He could have returned to the loft, but he sought solace in the ocean's timeless assurance that he could still breathe in and breathe out, matching the rhythm of his lungs to moving water.

Her words had burned into his flesh, permanently scarring him with a red-hot branding iron of truth, a truth he had always known, had always accepted and would never seek to break free of captivity. He could have, he knew he should have, returned her gift with the same words: _I love you. Forever_.

With a humbling, searing regret, he acknowledged that he had never done that. He held his head between his hands and dropped his chin to his chest, shaking his head as if to say no, no. No.

_You do what's right, no matter the cost to you. _

He could only swallow the shameful knowledge that it was Fiona who had done that for him, without regard to the cost she would pay.

And she would pay a price; Agent Pearce assured him of that.

_I can't let you ruin anyone's life to save mine._

There were no guarantees, Pearce told him, that everything he'd done since Fi had disappeared into the Federal Building would produce the results he needed and wanted, the results she had gambled her freedom on.

_I have to force you to tell what you know. If you don't, you won't be the man I love._

Duty, anger, desire, fear . . . he couldn't be sure which emotion had him turning away the moment she disappeared from his sight. He only knew he would do what she wanted. He nearly walked away without it when a flutter of color made him stop to scoop up her note from where he'd dropped it. He jammed it into his pocket and had gone to work by telling Pearce everything Fi wanted him to tell her.

He'd explained why Jesse had removed the hard drive from her laptop and had repeatedly smashed it with a hammer. He'd enlightened her that the probable reason Rebecca Lang sabotaged the mission to take Reed Perkins was because she was being blackmailed by Anson the same way he was. And then, with much detail, he'd explained to her why he and Fiona were being blackmailed. After that, he explained it again. Then once more. And then from the beginning, again.

Pearce was nothing but tireless and thorough in her debrief.

She demanded that he surrender his CIA security card after he explained why he lied months ago when she posed those questions for the security check. At the time, only a week had passed since he'd learned they had not been successful in taking down the organization that burned him.

They'd missed Anson Fullerton.

It had taken Michael more than 60 hours of bitterly truthful explanation, but he'd done as Fiona had begged. Now that she was gone, he came to the realization that she was exactly right. She had seen what he didn't want to. No matter what or how much he did for him, Anson would have kept forcing him to do his bidding.

So Fiona ended it.

The agonizing shame of it for Michael was that it was a sacrifice she should never have felt compelled to make.

Months ago, his mother had warned him of what his friends sacrificed for him by stopping that CIA convoy. She'd come battle-ready when she arrived to pick him up after he was released from Pearce's custody following Tavian's confession of killing Max. She warned him that he needed to start putting his friends first. He'd been chastised, justly so.

Fiona's bitter comment about endangering Sam with the Carmelo Dante episode had pained him in ways he could not feel . . . until now.

Yes, his mother had been correct. Life had changed since he'd returned to Miami, albeit against his will and by Anson's design. What affected his life now affected each of them, his mother, his brother, his friends, his Fiona. How many times, and how many different ways had his mother said that?

Anson himself had said that when he argued that he hadn't taken his life, he'd given him one. He should have let Fiona take that shot, but that's not what he did.

_This is delaying the inevitable! There is no happy ending!_

Fi had refused to accept his hope that he could find a way around, past, above, below or under Anson's plans, a way that would allow him to take down Anson and undo the terrible damage he'd done in the interim. They had yelled at each other until Sam had told them to stop. Heightened emotions and stressful situations were his stock and trade, but that exchange with Fiona had left him reeling, as had listening to the pain and fear in her voice as he left the loft while she cried his name after he'd handcuffed her to the wire wall.

As he sat there, watching pale sand stretch out to grasp the water as the rising revealed the horizon, he wondered how he would be able to stand upright under the weight of this pain.

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"Pearce said they finished last night around 8. He told her he was going home," Sam muttered as Jesse came through the loft door and slammed it shut.

"He wasn't at Maddie's place. He's not here. Not at Carlito's. Barry hasn't seen him. And Nate said he's not there, either, so where the hell is he?" Jesse checked his phone. "No messages. Nothing. His phone's off."

"Yeah. He's . . ." Sam sighed with a weary resignation and looked out the loft door. "He's not here. . . ah . . ."

"What?" Jesse nearly bit the word in two and frowned.

"He did this two, three years ago when Fi told him she was going back to Ireland."

"Fi left?" Jesse was clearly surprised by this revelation.

"No, it got real . . . complicated."

Jesse sat in the stool across from Sam at the kitchen bar. "With Mike, it always does. I think we should call Maddie."

Sam shook his head. "And tell her what? That he disappeared because Fi turned herself into the Feds for a bombing she didn't commit?"

"I'm guessing she'd know where to start looking for him."

When Sam's phone rang, he reached for it, recognized the number and shook his head. "Hey, Maddie. Ah, okay then, well, good. No . . . it's been about 10 hours . . . oh, okay. We'll check there. Mmmhumm. Yeah, see you soon. Bye."

Jesse raised an eyebrow, waiting for Sam's explanation.

"She overheard your call to Nate, and she's coming home. She says he's sitting in the sand somewhere and told me where to look."

"Probably doesn't want to come back here . . ." Jesse said, glancing at the rumpled bedding on the bed that he'd never seen when it had not been perfectly made.

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Michael glanced over at Sam when he sat down next to him. "You talked to my mother." It was an accusation. His voice was flat and devoid of anger, but he was clearly communicating an irritated response to Sam's intrusion.

"She called me."

Michael looked away, as if he wasn't there.

"When was the last time you ate?"

He didn't respond.

"Slept?"

Beyond them and around them the day was awakening, blending orange and yellow with red across the amethyst ocean. Gulls screeched, swung low in the sky and skimmed the water looking for breakfast.

"You're not going to be any good to her if you don't take care of yourself. You know that, don't you?"

"I did exactly what she wanted me to do."

Sam realized the significance of that single statement. "And?"

Michael looked away. "I surrendered my security badge, my phone and I agreed to stay at my mother's house until they tell me something has changed."

"And Fi?"

"Pearce knows where she is, but she won't tell me."

Sam stood up and studied his friend in the morning light. He was wearing the same clothing he saw him in three days earlier. His face was gaunt, whisker-stubbled. It was not a trick of the dawn, he realized, to see the faint, thin tracks of tears that had etched a journey down Michael's cheeks.

"Come on, Mikey. I need some breakfast and a ride to your Ma's."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

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CIA Case Officer Pearce pointed to the handcuffs around Fiona Glenanne's wrists and told the guard to remove them.

The guard had the audacity to hesitate.

"I said _remove them_."

She could see he was weighing accepted procedure against her directive.

Somewhat pointedly, she glanced at his name tag. "Do you value employment?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then remove them. Now."

With a soft click and snick, Fiona's wrists were freed.

"You can go," Pearce directed the guard as she placed a thick file folder and a small, wireless recorder on the table and motioned to Fiona to take a seat.

Again, the guard hesitated, but this time Pearce's stern look couldn't move him out of the room. She nodded with understanding. "Go ahead. Check it out."

He used the small communicator attached to his uniform lapel to verify Pearce's clearance to be alone with the prisoner. After it was confirmed, he left the room.

Pearce took the seat on the opposite side of the table and evaluated, without comment, the purpling and red bruise that crossed Fiona's left cheekbone.

"I assume," Fiona said, "I am no longer in custody of the FBI, although no one will actually speak to me or confirm that."

"You assume correctly."

"Do I have you to thank for that?" she wondered cautiously.

"No. You have my director to thank for that."

Pearce could tell she was not expecting that information.

It was true that she had arranged Fiona's transfer, but that was simply an operational task. Her director and his assistants interceded by sharing the embarrassingly unpleasant knowledge with the FBI that security breaches the agency thought it had sealed nine months earlier were leaking again, and Fiona Glenanne's unusual surrender to them was tied directly to a rogue operative they had not been aware of previously.

In the moments following the jet exploding on the tarmac, Jesse Porter arrived with a bloodied and battered Perkins in custody. She'd gleaned as much information as fast as she could for a sit rep. But she was stunned when he commandeered her laptop and asserted that time was of the essence, because unless he destroyed the PC's hard drive some good agents would be burned.

Following Rebecca Lang's defection, she knew this situation would open the door to places she did not want to go. Worse, she knew it fit with Westen's requests for access and relocation of Vaughn. She offered her help and he refused. She guessed she would be paying a price for his refusal.

"Where's Westen?" she'd forcefully demanded of Jesse. He explained he was trying to keep Fiona out of the FBI's hands since a DIA psychiatrist named Anson Fullerton would be following through on his threats against her.

Pearce quickly grasped that the massive mess needed containment before it grew into a mushroom cloud that would get her fired. She had no choice but to call her director to outline the situation.

He grasped the import immediately. It took them twelve hours to have Fiona Glenanne released to the CIA. She was their asset and they wanted her back. Pearce knew Fiona might not see herself as a CIA asset, but, thankfully, the director did.

He argued that situation within the agency made Miss Glenanne's coerced surrender an internal affairs situation, not the crime the FBI wanted to charge her with, and requested a change of her custody. His timing had been impeccable, and it included the guarantee that all details would be shared with them at the conclusion of the operation.

The fact that the purse taken from her was filled with CIA-related materials about Anson Fullerton, strengthened credibility of the CIA's request.

At the question in Fiona's eyes, Pearce explained the situation. "How long you stay in our custody depends on what you can tell me about the bombing at the British Consulate you've claimed responsibility for."

"Interpol? SIS?" Fiona asked.

"Not involved," Pearce said. "_Won't_ be involved. But you need to cooperate with me and answer all my questions about what happened at the Consulate. And then we'll see if your answers match Michael's."

"You've spoken with him."

"Yes."

For a moment, Fiona's stormy green eyes clashed with Dani Pearce's clear, level gaze.

It took Pearce less than ten seconds to decide the air needed to be cleared before they could proceed.

"I'm Michael's case officer, so yes, I've spoken with him. Because of what he's done, my career is on the line, so if you don't like my attitude, there's a reason I have it. I'm not going to lose everything I've worked for because of what he and you were involved in, and consequently what you've involved me in. Whether the starting place for all of this was his fault or not, that's not what I have to deal with."

Pearce looked down at her hands for a moment before locking her eyes with Fiona's. "And just so we're clear on this, because I have always sensed your personal concern, but the only man I have ever . . . loved . . . is dead," she said, lightly touching the small necklace at her throat as she steadily held Fiona's gaze. "Once, I was as lucky as you are to have one man love me, but he is gone and no one could ever replace Janssen. No one will. I have no personal interest in Michael beyond our professional relationship. Understood?"

Fiona heard Pearce's voice change from calm and authoritarian to soft and quiet, and responded just as softly, the only way she could. "I am very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

Fiona took a small, audible breath. "How is he?"

"He's been placed on administrative leave and confined to his mother's home. He's been remarkably cooperative." She sighed. "Look, the operation we were working on was compromised spectacularly, and when he finally came back and started explaining just how much of a screw up it was, it took a while. He was tired when we finished. So was I. What I would like to hear from you is . . ."

Fiona clasped her hands together like a tent in front of her face.

"What?" Pearce asked.

"Being sidelined will . . ."

"Irritate him. Yes, I know. But he's going to have to accept it for now."

Fiona nodded and looked away, but not before Pearce saw the sheen of moisture in her eyes.

"Tell me when you became aware of Michael's suspicion that there were problems concluding the investigation into Vaughn Anderson's organization."

"Almost immediately when the CIA said it was finished."

Four hours later, Pearce smiled faintly and with much satisfaction when Fiona wrote down the Cayman Islands account number where Anson Fullerton had coerced her and Jesse into transferring several hundred million dollars.

"Good memory." A genuine smile lit Pearce's face when Fiona handed her the paper.

"Good insurance."

Pearce considered the account number the coup de grâce. Between the volumes of information Westen provided, the flash memory card he surrendered, his phone which they'd used to track the calls Anson made to him in the hours preceding the explosion, and the address of the weapons facility in Tampa which had already been secured, the organization Vaughn told Westen that Anson was rebuilding could be shut down. She hoped.

She clicked off the recorder, closed her file, and offered her hand to Fiona. "Thank you." Glancing up at the monitor, she motioned for the guard to enter.

"You'll be relocated in a different part of the facility soon, and you'll be allowed visitors, but Michael will not be permitted to visit you at this time."

"Because?"

"It's not my decision. I'm sorry."

Fiona nodded, and when she spoke her voice was barely audible. "I understand. Thank you."

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Within 24 hours, Fiona was relocated to a different area where she remained in isolation, but at least the handcuffs were gone. That was a bonus for her daily yoga practice.

She had almost become inured to the silence and lack of human contact, and she'd been amusing herself by counting the shades of gray in her new windowless environment. So far, there were nine different hues of the grimly colored paint ranging from charcoal to storm cloud pale applied to the walls, the floor, the furniture bolted to the floor, the bathroom, the ceiling.

She knew what she had set in motion by surrendering to the FBI, and knew Michael would suffer for it, but she knew would do it again. And that was the place where the pain began.

Gray suited her outlook, although since Pearce visited, she was beginning to think in slightly lighter shades. The exception was the scratchily uncomfortable and obnoxiously orange jump suit she'd been given after her clothing was confiscated. She loathed it but accepted it as suffering she deserved.

Moments ago she'd been taken to an interview room similar to the one she had met Pearce in and told to wait.

There was no more joyful sight to Fiona's eyes and her heart than Madeline's colorful arrival. She glared at the guard opening the door, swept into the room wearing a sunshine yellow shirt with neon pink slacks and gathered Fiona up in a tearful hug before holding her at arm's length.

"You look terrible, honey."

Fiona let herself be pulled into another hug and laughed. "It's wonderful to see you, though. Wonderful."

"I've been missing you."

Fiona felt as if her heart would implode from the loving gift of Madeline's presence.

"How is Michael?"

"Miserable," she said flatly. "Damn, I need a cigarette. This place gives me the heebie jeebies."

"Me, too," Fiona said with a hiccupy laugh as she kept her arm around Michael's mother and moved toward the chairs bolted to the floor. Madeline took a chair while Fiona scooted up and to sit on top of the table, next to her.

"Well, the first thing I had to do was convince him to eat, and then sleep, and now I've got him painting the front porch and fixing things around my house. I need to keep him busy."

"He wasn't eating?"

"He wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting, staring off into space, the zombie, and it was making me crazy, so I drugged him."

Fiona laughed. "How?"

"It was easy. I opened the capsule of one of my sleeping pills and stirred it in the spaghetti I made him eat. It hit him like a ton of bricks. He never suspected a thing, but at least he slept for about 14 hours. He needed it. He's just not himself. It's more than you being locked up in here, too. I just don't know what to do for him, honey. And what can I do for you? They won't let me bring you anything . . . "

"Just being here is enough," Fiona said as she wiped her hands across her eyes and patted Madeline's hand. "Really, it is."

"Well, you're getting Sam tomorrow and Jesse's coming after that. You wouldn't believe what we have to do to get in here to see you," she said, pausing and looking at Fiona more closely. "You're pale. You need some sunshine, honey."

It felt so good to smile, and Fiona couldn't help herself. Madeline was just the dose of medicine she needed. "Pearce said Michael couldn't visit."

"She told us that, too. I don't know why, except it's mixed up with all the stuff about Anson. When I had to talk to her about him killing Benny, I told her I didn't think it was right that we got to visit but Michael didn't. And by the way, did he tell you about what Anson said, that he killed Frank?"

Fiona frowned. "No, he didn't . . . what?"

"Apparently, he was gloating and told Michael that Frank got too nosey so he had to get rid of him. I told Pearce that Michael didn't believe him, but I do. I mean, he killed Benny, didn't he?"

Fiona clutched Maddie's hands in her own. "I'm so sorry about Benny."

"I really thought . . . " Madeline started to say more but stopped.

She took a moment to compose herself before speaking again. "I found your note to Michael. I was doing laundry and . . . well, I read it. I probably shouldn't have done that, but I didn't really learn anything I didn't know already."

It's all right, Madeline."

"I'm beginning to think," she said slowly, "that maybe what's wrong with him is that he doesn't like anyone making a sacrifice for him."

"No, he doesn't."

"I think Pearce is really on his side, too, but I don't think he can see it."

"I think she is, too. I just wish I could see him, though," Fiona said softly.

"Me, too, honey. Me, too."

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Within the day, Sam arrived, but his arrival played a bit differently than Madeline's.

It started with Fiona gently examining the healing gash and bruise on Sam's forehead and her apology.

"I'm sorry, Sam." She clasped her hands together and looked down at the floor.

"Geeze, Fi. This is gonna make me crazy, the way you and Mikey are acting, like both of you committed some kind of crime. Well, technically, you did, but you didn't. Know what I mean? At least that's what I told Pearce. Let's just say I understood the first time you said 'I'm sorry' at the loft, and we don't need go there again. OK?"

"Okay," Fi said with a smile, and was grateful when Sam gathered her into a big hug. When she pulled away, she realized the scent of his Old Spice was on her cheek.

He held her at arm's length and shook his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do about the two of you."

"What do you mean?" Fiona wiped her hands across her face and sat on the table top next to where he settled. He put his arm around her shoulders and for once in her life, she didn't push him away.

"Okay, so this is what I'm looking at here. You're not eating, right? He isn't either."

"Have you ever tasted prison food, Sam?"

"Well, yeah, but the prisons in South America are known for bad food. And I see you haven't stopped the workouts. Neither has he. You're both going to look like . . . never mind. You two need to make some adjustments. It's not like you're going to be in here forever."

"Yeah, well . . . it's my fault I'm here, and-"

"Not your fault, Fi. I'm grateful you did what you did. I think Mikey is, too."

"You _think_?"

"Now don't do that," Sam chastised when he saw the flash of misery his words created. "It was going to happen. This thing had to end. You just got fed up first."

"He thinks I didn't trust him to fix it and get rid of Anson his way." She slid to the floor and took a few steps away from him.

When Sam didn't respond, Fiona knew she was right.

Sam's silence told her everything. And so did the comforting hug he offered.


	3. Chapter 3

Promises Chapter Three

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Fiona fought the gathering of tears and rubbed her fingers over her cheek to lift the comforting scent of Sam's after shave to her nose. He'd have a good laugh if he knew how sentimental she'd become over his Old Spice.

She turned over in the bed so her back was to the camera she'd located in the room, which meant someone watched, listened and probably recorded her every action. She was certain the designated visitors room was similarly equipped. Willingly losing free will and privacy as an act of love for Michael was one thing. Allowing others to witness her solitary grief was something she chose to hide from them.

When the lights dimmed at 10, she lay down on the board-hard bed with the board-hard pillow and roughly textured blanket and pulled it up over her shoulder. She didn't expect comforts and there were none, but she was a woman who enjoyed the sensual textures of fabrics and lotions and sweet and spicy scents, none of which existed in this barren environment. Instead, she let her memory give her those small luxuries.

Fiona shivered. The facility was air conditioned to the extreme. She had been thoroughly chilled from the moment she arrived, and wondered if she would ever feel the pleasant humid warmth of the loft again. Or Michael's gentle touch. When she closed her eyes and fell into that near sleep-like state she could almost feel his warmth and soothing caresses, and she trembled. It had become a nightly, aching sensation, something she knew would continue for as long as she was apart from him.

She strongly believed Michael would find his moral grounding again and in doing so, he would provide the way out of the hole she buried herself in. But the risk she'd taken might come with a price too high.

If he believed she had lost complete faith in him, then . . .

She'd known the possibility existed that she could lose him when she removed herself as Anson's leverage. She would do it again, if she had to because it was too agonizing to watch Anson play with Michael.

It had been nearly three weeks since the day she turned herself, and yet, with crystal clarity, she could hear him call her name and could see him, defeat on his face and in his posture, as he stood at the bottom of those stairs. Her last image was of him glancing down to the note she'd written.

_I have to force you to tell what you know. If you don't, you won't be the man I love._

That's when it struck her what she'd written.

Had she just told the man she loved that if he didn't do what _she_ wanted she wouldn't love him?

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When Pearce scrolled through the images of Fiona Glenanne's visitors and incarceration, she paused. One image caught her attention more than the others, apart from the interesting visits from Jesse Porter, Michael's mother and Sam Axe.

Fiona was in the bed, the blanket pulled up and over her shoulders while her small frame was silently shaking. It took a woman who had cried too many soundless tears herself to accurately identify the images on the screen before her.

She wondered again if there was some way the powers at Langley would allow Michael to see Fiona but according to her director, they weren't done with him yet.

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"Back off, Westen."

Jesse altered his stance. Mike might be fast, but so was he and there was no way he was going to put up with his attitude one minute longer.

"What's the matter? You pissed because I visited your girlfriend in prison? Or because the reason she's there is because of you?"

He anticipated his friend's predictable move, then stepped to the side, felt air move as Mike's fist whizzed past his jaw, then delivered his own message up and under Mike's chin, and followed up with his other fist as Mike's jaw snapped down.

In three moves, Jesse put Michael flat on his butt on his mother's garage floor for all of the two seconds it took him to pop back up again.

"You really want to do this?" Jesse yelled when it was apparent Michael wasn't ready to call it quits. "Really? Cause I'm more than happy to take you on, Westen. If this is what it takes to adjust your attitude, I'm happy to put you on the floor again. You need to get your head screwed on straight, cause it's not. You're a fool, man. Anybody who knows you, knows the way to get to you is through Fi. She's a shortcut. You don't get to be pissed about that!"

Unaware their argument had drawn onlookers, both Michael and Jesse were surprised when Sam stepped through the door. Madeline was right behind him.

Sam evaluated the situation between soldiers; Madeline saw boys and reverted to her mom role.

"What is going on out here?" she demanded.

Both Michael and Jesse looked over at them and replied at the same time, in the same way, with the same word. "Nothing."

Sam glanced at Jesse and put his hand on Maddie's shoulder to steer her back to the house. "You heard them. Let's go."

"But . . . " Maddie started.

"You're good here, right?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Michael said, using the front of his wrist to wipe the blood at the corner of his mouth.

Jesse agreed. "Right."

When Michael heard the screen door on the house shut, he turned to Jesse, took a deep breath and extended his hand. "I'm sorry. Thanks for taking that to Fi."

Jesse shook Mike's hand but he wasn't ready to move past their argument, or the reason for it. When he spotted the small fridge against the wall that he'd used when he'd been living in the garage a couple of years earlier, he opened the door to find Sam's stash of beer. He grabbed a bottle and held one up to Mike. "Want one?"

"Yeah."

They took seats at the opposite ends of the couch that had been moved against the wall while Michael rebuilt the Charger after Jesse rescued it from the police impound lot last year.

"When do you go back to Langley?" Jesse asked.

Michael grimaced. "Whenever they call. Every time I think we're done, they call me back and ask the same questions again and again. I think they're trying to decide if they're going to throw me in prison, too."

"So that's it."

"What?"

"Your hair trigger."

Michael got up and walked toward the open door and stood in the light. "Sorry, Jess."

Jesse left the couch to stand on the opposite side of the door. "It's not like everybody's piling on. Pearce, Raines, your ma, your brother."

"Yeah."

"For the record, that's not me and Sam."

"I know."

"Hey, man, you can handle this but you need to work on doing that better. This has been coming at you for a long time, more than half your career, if Anson is to believed, and I'm not sure you can take anything that manipulative son of a bitch said as truth. That's all they're doing, Mike, trying to sort out what's true and what's not. If you hadn't been so good at operating behind a smoke screen that you made, and we all helped you make, it'd be over now. Or you'd be in prison already. Or dead."

"Yeah." Michael shook his head and stared off into the distance.

Jesse let the silence settle between them for a minute before he grinned to himself. "So, there I was, visiting your girlfriend in prison and it was like I was in high school again. I slipped your note to Fi and she seemed confused at first, and then she saw what she had. So I got a big ole kiss from her, Westen." Jesse pointed to his cheek. "Right there. You could have got some of that sweet stuff on your knuckle if you would've connected."

Michael had the grace to be embarrassed. In a quick gesture of surrender, he put both hands up in the air and grinned then took a sip from the bottle. "What is this? You going to be like Fi and need to hear the apology six times before you believe it?"

Jesse laughed. "Yeah, something like that."

Just as quickly, Michael's good humor vanished. "I don't want her to be there."

"I know. We all know. But . . . "

Michael sighed. "She did the right thing."

"You just wish it had been you, not her."

"Yeah."

Jesse finished off his beer and tossed the bottle in Madeline's recycle bin by the door. "You know, I heard this rumor that married people do that kind of thing for each other. Not that I ever saw it in my life or you, either. But I hear that's how it works."

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It was a small thing. A small piece of unlined paper, folded twice, the words written on it obscured and hidden inside.

It wasn't something a guard would confiscate, something that would alert anyone to anything, so it was easily overlooked when Jesse was searched. A small piece of paper in a shirt pocket. Nothing big.

Except it was.

And it was clearly against the rules as outlined by Pearce and the CIA guards who checked visitors through security.

Madeline and Sam showed up as often as they were allowed to visit Fiona, but Jesse had delayed his visit because a project he was working on for his security company didn't allow him to come during the limited visiting hours. It'd been at least two weeks since Madeline's first visit when Jesse arrived.

Fiona was not expecting him, nor expecting how much room he'd take up. He was a large man, broader and heavier than Michael and she'd forgotten that about him. When he came through the door, he grinned, took her in his arms and whispered in her ear. "There's a note from Michael in my shirt pocket. Take it and read it while I hold you so the camera can't see you."

And she did. When she was done, she wiped the tears of gratitude from her eyes and kissed Jesse's cheek and whispered "thank you."

He teased her a bit, and told her she was beginning to look like an Irish lass again since her tan had faded completely. Then he told her what was going on with Maddie and Sam and repeated everything they'd already told her about Michael being called to Langley twice since the day Fiona surrendered to the FBI.

"Are they looking for Anson?"

"Oh, yeah," Jesse laughed. "I forgot to tell you about my debrief with Pearce. That account number you memorized? I did, too. She was really happy when they matched up. His money's frozen, so they've locked him away from his big money. He probably has more somewhere, though."

Fiona thought about that for a minute. "That probably makes him more dangerous."

"Yeah. And something else, Fi. They never found Larry's body at the Embassy."

"Does Michael know?"

"Yeah."

Fiona leaned heavily against Jesse's shoulder. "It's never going to end. This is _never_ going to end."

"It feels like it doesn't it?" Jesse said, giving her a gentle hug.

#

#

#

Five words.

It only took five words to restore the hope that had eroded since Fiona chose her course of action.

She kept them inside her bra, as close to her heart as she could safely keep them.

And that night, the night after Jesse's visit, she slept easily. On the board-hard bed, with the board-hard pillow and the scratchy gray blanket. She had the peace and comfort she needed.

_I love you, Fiona. Forever._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

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Raines had been called back to D.C. against his wishes which did nothing to improve his grumpy mood as Pearce supplied rapid-fire answers to his rapid-fire questions.

Rumor was he was up for deputy director, so she needed to be at the top of her game. She learned he'd read the debriefs and reports on the flight from London, which meant she was glad she'd created the visual history in the ultra secure conference room as a tool to understand the extent of the conspiracy past and present.

"This damned situation is going to be the death of me," he muttered as he followed her into the room and paused to look at the wall of information she'd assembled: Photos of crimes investigated, agent activity reports, individual photos and a visual root system linking Anson to Vaughn, Management and the network of burned agents they coerced into working for them, most willingly, except for two images, off to one side, of those who'd resisted being burned, and attempted to fight from within: Victor Stecker-Epps and Michael Westen. If there were others, they were unknown to Pearce.

"Where's Westen?"

"Waiting in the next room."

"Get him in here," Raines ordered. Pearce left to retrieve Michael.

When the door opened, Raines came forward, hand outstretched. "So we didn't get them all."

"No, sir."

"Got your report here with all the questions you asked but no one answered nine months ago. Have you made sense of this yet, Pearce?" he wondered.

"Not yet. We just located that report two days ago after we became aware it existed."

"Well, if I knew about it, why didn't you?" he demanded.

"I'm a case officer, sir. I wasn't involved with that investigation, I only investigated the death of the agent who was."

"We both know you've been involved since Max died."

"Yes, sir," Pearce replied.

"And then that plane blew up. You did that, didn't you, Westen?"

"I depressed a detonator so an asset wouldn't be killed, but I didn't plant the C4," Michael said clearly.

"Yeah, and it wasn't your girlfriend, either. By the way, where is she now?" Raines wondered, glancing at Pearce.

"Still incarcerated," she said.

"She's been cleared, did I understand that?"

"Yes, the new crime lab reports show two different versions of T4 used, one on the upper level, the other on the ground floor where the guards were killed."

"Then let her go. We're agreed with the FBI on her version of the upper level bombing? And the Brits' assessment of the attempted theft?"

"Yes."

Raines removed his jacket and took the chair at the head of the conference table. "If Glenanne hadn't started the ball rolling on this, God knows what other messes we'd be dealing with now. Make that call, Pearce, and then rejoin us. And order breakfast while you're at it. I'm still in another time zone."

He indicated to Michael to take a seat to his right. "Now, Westen, let's discuss why it was your girlfriend instead of you who got us to this point in time."

Raines gaze narrowed as he focused on the bruise on Michael's chin.

For a moment the only coherent thought thrumming through Michael was the idea that Fiona would be released and he wouldn't be there to see her, but he quickly tamped down that emotional response and replied like a responsible, if suspended, operative.

"I've had a long history of being set up or blamed for something I didn't do. That started more than five years ago. You heard Pearce-she just got the report I wrote a couple of weeks after we finished in Caracas, a report no one was interested in at the time I handed it in. I was told I was paranoid, seeing ghosts where there were none. Now we know one ghost's name."

"So, let's talk about the things you've been blamed for that you actually did."

"Yes, sir."

Raines squinted, as if he remembered something. "Stay here. I need to speak with Pearce for a moment."

Michael watched as Raines left the room and blew out a breath of air. "This ought to be fun. Or not."

He turned and looked back to the wall of data Pearce had assembled. He'd seen it yesterday, and when he passed by Victor's photo and his put hand on it, as he had with Max's photo, as if in friendship. Pearce asked if he'd known Victor.

"Yes. He kept blowing chances to kill me, so we talked. They killed his family, Pearce. His wife, his son. When he figured that out, he tried to take the organization down from the inside, and didn't really give a damn who he hurt, but . . . "

Michael stopped and held his breath and was again challenged by conflicting emotions of remorse and gratitude. Remorse that it had been a gun in his hand that ultimately ended Victor's life. Gratitude that Victor's blunt appraisal of their situation allowed him to continue the war with Management.

Unaware of his thoughts, Pearce interpreted what she saw as his response. "You wish it had ended differently."

"Yes," he'd said, closing his eyes briefly. "Yes."

The newest photo Pearce had added to the board was that of Rebecca Lang, whose body had been recovered near Port Saint Lucie, north of Miami. She had been shot in the head, her body dumped in a rail yard. She was still dressed in the gear she wore the day the Reed operation came to its explosive end.

Raines came back into the room, a cup of coffee in his hand. "Okay, Westen. Let's begin."

#

#

#

It was sometime after 7 p.m. when Raines declared he'd had enough. He had one more person he wanted to talk to before he made his decision on how they would proceed.

"I'm tired and I want to go home," Raines said, "so we'll pick this up in the morning. Be here at 8."

"Need a ride to the hotel?" Pearce asked Michael.

"Yeah, thanks. And Fiona, has she been released now?"

Pearce smiled. "Yes. She's a free woman, a valued CIA asset."

"Not sure she'll agree to being an asset."

"Too late. That's the language we used with the FBI initially and it'll be part of the record."

"Okay."

Fifteen minutes later, Michael walked into his hotel, opened his cell phone and called his mother who reported that Fiona was not there. She seemed astounded to learn that she'd been released.

He called Sam, but the call dropped when the elevator doors closed. He redialed at the same time he slipped the keycard into his room door. "No, brother. No one called. Not a word. Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Michael said. "I was there when Raines told Pearce to have her released. She had to go somewhere or call someone."

"We'll go find her," Sam said.

An hour later, Sam called back. Michael had been pacing the floor in his room, restless and agitated by the length of time that had passed.

"She left with someone from the CIA. That's all we know. Jesse pulled that rabbit out of the hat. We checked the loft, too, and Mike . . . somebody's been there. It's like they've been living there since you and Fi left. The fridge is full of Chinese food boxes and a bunch of other crap."

"You're kidding."

"Wish I was. We'll run a surveillance and see what we come up with . . . and you might want to call Pearce and find out . . ."

"Yeah, thanks."

As quickly as he ended the call from Sam, he dialed Pearce. She didn't answer.

#

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#

The loudspeaker announcing that the store would close in 15 minutes blared at the same time her phone rang. Dani Pearce picked it up and recognized Michael's number then let it go to voicemail. She wasn't going to lie to him. This was easier.

She knew exactly what he would ask, and she also knew she couldn't tell him what he wanted to know.

But she could take care of her for him.

"I'm ready," Fiona said, as she left the fitting room with necessities and clothing appropriate for a meeting in an office setting. Pearce had located an empty shopping cart and held it for her while she was trying on clothing. Fortunately, the store had a large selection of petite sizes.

"Next?" she wondered then saw what she would want had she been incarcerated for eight weeks. They stopped at the cosmetics display and Fiona zeroed in on the shampoo and conditioner and then grabbed a small promotional essentials kit with lotion, mineral foundation, brushes, mascara and lipstick.

The discount retailer offered everything from high end luxury clothing and shoes to furniture and house wares at vastly reduced prices. When Pearce met Fiona's plane, she realized they needed to make a 30 minute stop. The dress she'd worn when she turned herself into the FBI had been returned to her along with her purse and sandals, all of which was perfect for 85 degree weather in Miami but inadequate to deal with winter in Virginia. The agent accompanying her on the flight had given her a lightweight jacket with a CIA logo, also functional, but it would hardly keep her warm.

Pearce knew tomorrow would be difficult enough for her, although she was certain Fiona Glenanne could hold her own no matter how she was dressed. This was a small kindness she could extend, woman to woman, at her expense.

She'd already warned her what would be in store for her tomorrow, and told her that she would be seeing Michael, but that there would be no personal time for them. Fiona nodded with understanding. And worry.

"I have a guest room in my condo my mother stays in sometimes, and I need to keep you with me until . . ."

Fiona touched her arm. "I understand that part of this is your job, and this isn't. Thank you."

Pearce smiled. "You're welcome. Coats or shoes next?"

Fiona grinned. "Shoes."

"That would be my choice, too."

#

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#

Michael had spent several troubled hours the previous evening wondering about Fiona's whereabouts when it suddenly struck him that Pearce was probably not returning his calls for a reason.

Fiona was in Washington.

It was the thought that he slept with and greeted him when he awoke. Fiona was somewhere here, near.

The question was . . .why?

It seemed like something Raines would do. Did he want to watch the worms wiggle on the end of the hook? If not, what would be the point of bringing her here?

He tightened his tie, and was shrugging into his suit jacket when someone knocked on the hotel room door. The peephole to the hallway revealed two familiar CIA faces. "We're your ride to headquarters."

He grabbed his coat. "I planned to walk."

"Not today."

Twenty minutes later, he stood waiting between his escorts outside an interrogation room he'd spent too much time in over the past few weeks.

When the door opened, Pearce stepped out. Behind her, Fiona.

Michael's eyes met hers and held on as she walked, silently, behind Pearce with a somber expression on her face. When she passed him, she reached out for his hand and for a time much too brief, they grasped each other's hands, soft flesh to rough flesh, warmth to heat, and held each other, before the woman walking behind Fiona said "move along."

Fiona let her hand slide from his and continued walking, but turned to watch Michael until they turned at a corner and disappeared from his sight.

"Your turn," one of his escorts said, gesturing for him to enter the interrogation room.

And there was the answer to Michael's questions. Raines stood next to a polygraph machine and an examiner.

"What?" Michael said. "You didn't believe me? Us?"

"The problem," Raines said, "with spies, is that you need to be such skillful liars to do your job well, that when it comes to finding the truth, you need a little help. This is only for the most talented. Sit down, Michael."

He knew the drill and removed his jacket and took a seat while the examiner attached the monitoring equipment to his chest, his arm, his fingers.

"Blood pressure, heart rate, EDR response, do you think this is really going to tell you something I haven't already?"

Raines glanced down at the screen that illuminated the three distinct lines once the examiner turned it on.

He smiled. "It already has. You are currently in a high state of agitation."

"Gee whiz," Michael responded sarcastically. "That's a surprise."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

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Fiona Glenanne had never made the acquaintance of a polygraph machine or examiner, and now that she had done so she would not recommend it to others.

There were simply too many ways to answer the same question.

There were also too many questions she did not want to answer.

Such as . . . was she a legal resident of the United States? She certainly felt legal, and she did have a plentiful collection of passports, but she assumed that was not what the examiner was going for.

She had another favorite: Have you ever killed an unarmed person? The correct answer would be yes, she had. She'd killed Carla. Unarmed? The woman had a detonator in her hand and was ready to blow up the boat Victor and Michael were on. Did a detonator count as a weapon? She thought so, but she had not sought clarifiction on that one. Perhaps she should have.

Fiona had not encountered polygraph testing during I.R.A. training, so much of what had just occurred had taken her by surprise.

She thought she would have been asked more questions regarding the Consulate bombings Anson used to blackmail her and Michael. Wouldn't that have been pertinent?

Was there some sort of ethical and moral grading scale for polygraph questions and answers? She assumed she had failed, but it would be good to know _what _she had failed.

There also had been questions that were entirely too personal. Much, much too personal about her relationship with Michael.

That's when she remembered what he had said when he'd been frantic to keep her from turning herself in.

_They won't understand us, Fi. _

After the test ended, after she passed by Michael in the hall, Pearce brought her to a large conference room with a wide freestanding board full of items regarding Anson's organization. Her eyes were drawn to the photos of Michael and Victor off to one side.

Pearce handed her a cup of freshly brewed coffee. "You have a question."

"Several. I am not sure I understand what my situation is here. You released me, but. . ."

"Raines will be back soon. It's not my place to explain this; it's his. I'm sorry I can't tell you more," she said quietly.

Fiona handed Pearce her cup for a moment, then reached over to the board and moved the push pins to reverse two photos. "Out of sequence," she explained.

"You've lived with this as long as Michael," Pearce said as she returned the cup.

"I'm beginning to think it will never go away."

"After looking at all of this, I can see how you'd think that."

#

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#

Raines had asked Pearce to take Miss Glenanne to the working conference room after her polygraph, and he joined them as soon as the examiner cleared the room in preparation for Michael's exam.

He found her and Pearce studying the timeline board, and introduced himself.

She extended her hand and he was suddenly aware of what must have drawn Westen's attention. It was more than vivid green eyes or the mass of auburn hair, although it was impossible to ignore the fact that Fiona Glenanne was a startling beautiful woman. She made a striking appearance dressed in black, head to toe, with a turtleneck, slim skirt and jacket and heeled boots that elevated her height. No, it was that she seemed to possess intrinsic qualities of strength, grace and awareness, qualities he had also observed in Pearce.

Glenanne was first mentioned in one of Westen's reports fifteen years ago, early in his career. There were two more reports of her assistance on operations in later years, one in Germany, another in Ireland, both which identified her as an asset. Raines knew from personal experience it wouldn't be the first or the last time an operative became romantically involved with an asset.

Last year, when Michael had been debriefed after the firefight with Vaughn, he had realized Westen and every one of his friends were loyal to one another to the degree that they would die for each other.

Couple loyalty with deeper emotion, and Raines knew that kind of faithful devotion needed special handling.

Per their agreement with the FBI when they took custody of Miss Glenanne eight weeks ago, he told Pearce the only way the agency could comply with the FBI request was to keep Westen and Glenanne separated to avoid collaboration while documenting every step of their internal investigation.

So that's what they had done.

As he entered the conference room, he indicated to Pearce. "Give us 15 minutes and come back for her."

"Yes, sir," she said.

Fiona sensed Raines was studying her as if she was some kind of exotic specimen under his microscope. "I would like to know," she began, "what my status is. Am I free to go? Or?"

He indicated that she should take a seat at the conference table, which she did. He poured himself some coffee, and raised the pot. "More?"

When she replied in the negative, he took a chair on the opposite side of the table. "We'll get to that. First, I have a question for you."

"The CIA has asked me many questions the last two months."

"Have you noticed that among those questions, no one has asked you why you turned yourself in to the FBI? Why did you?"

She frowned. "Actually, I have answered that. Several times. I wanted Anson to stop blackmailing Michael. Turning myself in removed his leverage so that you could look at the larger picture of what Anson was doing. It seemed you'd be interested in someone running a black ops organization from within the CIA."

He shook his head as if he disagreed.

With that, she understood. "I see."

"What do you see?"

"I see that you would like to play word games until I say something that will implicate Michael in a crime he never committed, but may have thought about committing. Is that what you're after?"

"No, Miss Glenanne. It's a serious matter when someone is accused of a crime, and it's complicated by the fact that, as operatives, you are highly skilled at deception."

"So that's why the test this morning," she said. "I should warn you. I was never very good at taking tests. I've probably flunked it. And I'm not your operative. Michael is."

"True. Your role is that of asset."

"I'm not that, either," Fiona said.

"Oh, but you are," Raines clarified. "We're being courteous, but you can check with Pearce on that. You are still in custody. Consider it your safety net."

"I'm not going to run off," Fiona said.

"That's good to know," Raines said as Pearce opened the door.

#

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An hour later, Raines followed up on Michael's test. The door was open, indicating the test was over.

"Satisfied?" Michael asked Raines as the forensic psychophysiologist who had also examined Fiona carefully packed his equipment and briefcase.

"I will be," Raines said, "after I see the reports."

Although results of polygraph tests remained controversial in courts of law, all federal employees were subject to the test for matters of national security. It would be at least another 24 hours before the results were evaluated and Raines would have his answers.

Michael was aware of this aspect of the testing, and he suspected Fiona was not. He also assumed she would not have been aware of the room's security and privacy features that could easily be blocked to provide privacy required by the examiner to validate the testing procedure.

After his test was complete, he asked the examiner if he'd explained that to Fiona.

"Yes, I informed her," he said, not offended by Michael's assumption that he hadn't been very professional.

Michael knew the kindly grandfatherly image was one the examiner probably cultivated, intended to put those he examined at ease with his trustworthy appearance. Since Anson interjected himself in his life and career, Michael had developed a new sense of wariness for anyone who sought personal information. And, if he knew Fiona, he guessed her natural distrust probably meant the examiner had spent at least an hour with her, gauging her responses, before he could begin the actual test.

Perhaps that accounted for the expression on her face when they had passed each other outside of the room and his chest felt as if it would explode as he reached to touch him.

When the examiner left the room Michael turned to Raines and asked him when he would be allowed to see Fiona.

"Not today, Michael."

"Then when?"

Raines took the chair Michael had sat in during he exam and motioned for him to sit in the chair opposite of him.

"Let me ask this, Westen: At what point in time, from the day Anson Fullerton informed you of his blackmail plans, did you consider coming to us and telling us what was happening?"

"I've answered that multiple times. We knew Fiona wasn't responsible for killing those two guards, but until we could find proof-"

Raines interrupted. "You did find reasons, many other reasons, Anson could be brought in."

Michael shook his head. "But until we could find proof so he couldn't turn in Fiona-"

"I've got debriefs from your mother, Axe, Porter and Glenanne that tell me something different."

"No. We . . ."

"All right. Once more. At what point in time, from the day Anson Fullerton informed you of his blackmail plans, did you consider coming to us and telling us what was happening?"

Michael watched Raines. "Not until," he said, looking away, "not until Fiona turned herself in to the FBI."

"That's a problem. The problem."

Michael rose and turned away from Raines. He stuck his hands in his slacks pockets, studied the floor and didn't reply.

"This is what's wrong with getting involved with assets," Raines said.

"It's what we do, Raines. It's the job. We learn who you can trust with your life and who not to trust. It's not complicated."

"This isn't complicated? The FBI wants both of you, two heads on one platter. That's complicated."

Michael turned around quickly. "But I heard you tell Pearce . . . you said . . . "

"I needed you both to be in the right frame of mind," Raines said.

"For the polygraphs. Dammit, Raines. I'm really tired of people pulling my strings."

"She's an asset, Michael. A CIA asset. She's been working for you as an asset for the past five years. And longer. You don't ask an asset to move in!"

"Oh, like _your_ wife? She's why you left field work."

"Michael, I'm trying to protect you here!"

"Then hang _me_ out to dry, but leave her alone."

"I can't do that. We've identified her as a CIA asset. That's how we got her back."

"Your label, Raines. That's not who she is to me," he said quietly. "Are we done here?"

With a gesture of disgust, Raines nodded and stuck his hands on his hips. "Yeah. Be back here tomorrow at 0800."

#

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#

Fiona was waiting in Pearce's nearly sterile office, wandering from chair to shelves, to window and finally to the desktop. She'd read the newspaper Pearce had tossed on the chair. She'd noted that the plants were elegantly formed replicas of the real things. And she kept returning to look at the same single item on the desktop.

Raines called and Pearce left, but not before she held up a finger to Fiona.

"I won't go any place. I promise," Fi said with a small smile.

"Thanks. I'll be back soon."

Pearce's soon had lasted for a little more than an hour now, if the artistic clock on the wall was keeping time accurately.

Fiona had been drawn to the only personal thing in the room. It was an image of two faces, their cheeks touching, Dani Pearce's laughing countenance next to a smiling, blue-eyed Nordic god whose arms were wrapped around her. Whenever she studied the photograph inside the small silver photo frame, she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.

Two quick raps on the door, and it opened. "Pearce, I have to . . . "

For a moment, Fiona thought her heart might stop beating as she whispered his name. "Michael."

He stood there for a second, weighing what he knew he should do against what he wanted to do before he quickly closed the door and crossed the room to take her in his arms. She curved her arms up and around his shoulders while he folded her into his chest, holding her tightly, as close to him as possible. Michael lowered his head to bury his face against her cheek while inhaling every bit of warmth and softness that was uniquely Fiona. "I am so sorry, so sorry. I need your forgiveness. I need forever, Fi. I need you."

And that was how Pearce found them when she opened the door. She shook her head and put her hand to her forehead, "you know . . . you're not . . . " she inhaled deeply then looked at her watch. "Dammit, Westen. Two minutes. Then I'm escorting you out of the building." She closed the door.

"Michael, I don't know what's going to happen," Fiona said, hungrily taking in everything about him.

"I don't either. I just know I can't lose you. I can't." His lips found hers and they shared something between sweetness and desperation. Fiona's hand curved up around his head to comfort him and herself. "Forever, Michael," she said into the curve of his neck. "Forever."

The door opened. Pearce stepped inside, closing it behind her. "Westen, you have to go."

Michael pulled away from Fiona, his hand against her face, his touch tender and remorseful. "Forever," he said so softly only Fiona could hear.

And then, he was gone. Fiona knew she was two heartbeats from losing every bit of composure she was fighting to keep. Slowly she took the chair opposite of Dani's desk and sat down. As a child, she had suffered from frostbite, so she understood the painful, throbbing sensitivity of her skin was the result of too much warmth, too quickly. She said a silent prayer to embrace the sensation for as long as possible.

Michael's ride in the elevator to the ground floor next to Pearce was stoic and silent; they both wore grim expressions. When the door chimed the opening, they stepped out and Pearce walked beside him to the wide glass entrance. Before he left he turned and looked down at her. "Thank you."

And then he was gone.

"Dammit," Pearce mumbled to herself, as she turned to return to her office. "Dammit."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

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For the first time in many years, as she waited in front of the elevator to return to her office, the ache of losing Janssen Tunberg poured over her, stealing her ability to think of anything but him. Grief hidden renewed itself.

She knew her brief yet intrusive witness of the intensely private and intimate moment between people as desperate to see each other as Fiona and Michael had been was something they never intended to be observed, even accidentally.

How she wished that had never happened. For them and her.

What interrupting their embrace had done to her was to create a sudden flood of memory that threatened to breach the stone walls she'd built around her truest self, walls that allowed her to function in the every day world with the armor of abeyance.

As she returned to her office, she stood outside her door, paused, and then took a calming breath before opening it. She found Fiona at the window, her hand pressed to the glass, looking down at the street below, panic in her voice. "No, Michael. No!"

By the time Pearce flew to the window, all she saw was Westen standing alone, looking up to where Fiona stood watching.

"That was Anson. I swear, it was him," Fiona said.

Pearce dialed her phone immediately. "Michael? Come back in the building. Fiona said Anson is here? Was here? Fine. I'll be right down."

"Can I . . ." Fiona began.

"No, you can't. I'm sorry, so sorry," Pearce said and quickly added, "Will you stay here, please?"

"Yes," Fiona agreed as she crossed her arms across her middle and turned back to the scene below.

Pearce left her office dialing her phone. "Raines, we have a problem."

#

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_That's not who she is to me._

Had he been focusing outwardly instead of inwardly, he might have picked up sooner on the walker who was crossing four lanes of pavement behind him. It wasn't until a tic in Michael's interoceptive sense and peripheral awareness alerted him that he was under attack. He turned sharply, saw the gun then wrested the .45 from his attacker's hand while shoving him away and turning the gun on him.

"We meet again, Michael," Anson said.

"You didn't get the message?" Michael's tone was vicious as he shoved the gun hard up and under Anson's ribcage and propelled him backward with aggressive, advancing steps. "I am done talking to you."

"That's unfortunate," Anson said, "because I'm not done with you. Or your girlfriend. Or your family, or your friends in Miami, or even your friends inside that building. This is going to end badly for you. All of you. I thought you should know."

A black Mercedes with windows tinted as dark as a pair of sunglasses pulled up. The windows rolled down as the muzzle end of a large caliber handgun pointed at Michael. Anson opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat with a parting message. "We'll see you soon."

He watched as the car sped away and when it was out of sight, he turned and looked up. Sensing what he would find on the fourth floor level, he found Fiona with her hand against the glass, looking down.

_This is never going to end, Michael! _

He hoped she could hear what his heart was telling her.

_It has to end, Fi. It has to._

When his phone rang, it was Pearce, telling him to return to the building. At least now he had a weapon. Fifteen minutes earlier, after he'd left Raines, he had stopped at her office to make the request to arm himself, but instead he had found Fiona, and thoughts of anything but her dissipated like mist in sunlight.

That didn't change his instinct to arm himself.

Whenever the CIA had requested his presence in D.C., he'd complied as he'd told Pearce he would, had shown up where he was told, when he was told. He'd always been accompanied by at least two agents after his flight, who escorted him in and out of the hotel and the building. He had been hoping by now he'd earned at least a temporary security pass and the ability to carry a weapon. He checked the clip on the .45 he'd taken from Anson and removed it just as an electronic hum preceded Pearce opening the door.

"Souvenir?" she asked, nodding to the handgun.

"Anson's. I could keep it or . . .?"

She held out her hand for the gun and clip. "Let's go see Raines. He's not happy."

"That makes two . . . or three . . . or four of us," Michael said as he followed Pearce back to the elevators they'd left twenty minutes earlier.

"Anson was here?" Raines demanded as they entered the conference room.

With grim brackets set on either side of his mouth, Raines learned the DIA psychiatrist who had blackmailed Westen and Glenanne had been brazen enough to show up outside one of the CIA's nondescript and intensely secure buildings, a building that possessed a street but no street address.

"What did he say?"

"He said he wasn't done, and things are going to end badly for me, Fi, our family and friends here and in Miami. He wasn't specific about what 'badly' meant. Oh, and he included you and Pearce on his list of our friends."

"How in the hell . . . " Raines wondered. "We've taken . . ." Instead of finishing either thought he reached for a folder on the table, glanced inside then closed it. "We need to provide protection for you and Miss Glenanne."

Michael watched the expression on Raines' face change, and was surprised when annoyance morphed into sardonic amusement and slowly slid across his features. Raines shook his head. "Send someone over to the hotel to collect the things in his room, and . . . no, on second thought, forget that. Make yourself comfortable, Westen. I've got some calls to make. I'll be back."

When he left the room, Michael turned to Pearce. "What'd I miss?"

Pearce sighed. "It's a . . . pissing match," she said with disgust. "Sorry."

"With the FBI?" Michael guessed.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Good question. But the better question is, how did Anson know you were _here_?"

#

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Results from polygraph tests were not infallible.

There were many aspects to understanding deception and bias, and that included the examiner's biases. If an examiner expected to see falsity, he or she would. On the other hand, if falsity was detected, it was more important to understand the reason for the dishonesty instead of the dishonesty itself.

It was a basic truth of human existence: deception walked side by side with the instinct for self-preservation. In the human body, that could be measured.

The forensic psychophysiologist the FBI insisted administer the tests to Westen and Glenanne included that basic explanation in his introduction to the reports he filed. One copy went to Raines; an identical copy was delivered to his FBI counterpart.

Raines had issued no objection to the FBI request for either the polygraphs or the choice to use their certified examiner.

That's because he knew the examiner they selected was at the top of his field, perhaps the most well respected of any examiner among the various D.C. agencies. He regularly conducted specialized seminars for advanced training and certification. His experience, expertise and extensive knowledge meant he lived in rarified air where inter-agency rivalry ceased out of respect for his skills.

His report noted testing for Miss Glenanne had taken far longer than for Westen.

As an operative, Westen had been polygraphed many times for his security ratings. Given the serious nature of the Consulate bombing and that two innocent men had died, the Bureau chose the full scope polygraph combination of tests, standard for anyone seeking the highest levels of security clearance, to be administered to them both.

They were the most extensive available.

Miss Glenanne caught on quickly, once she learned her answers could not be narrative and that she was required to sit still as she was examined. The examiner explained to her that the machine measured physiological activity instead of honesty, which seemed to interest her. It took an hour and a half of questions, many of which were repetitious, before her test began in earnest.

The examiner also noted it took Westen, twenty minutes to be receptive to the questions, following a low level personal confrontation with Raines prior to the examination.

It took Raines an hour to read, then re-read the test results. He had to smile, because the results indicated Glenanne and Westen both would have been eligible for high level security clearances. They were truthful.

That should take care of the FBI's ongoing thrust to charge both of them with the bombings and the deaths of the guards. He'd sent copies of the briefings and reports from the interviews with Westen and Glenanne weeks ago. That's what had prompted the FBI's request for the polygraphs.

Now Raines found himself in the unique position, exactly the same position, Westen had been in prior to Fiona Glenanne's surrender. How could they prove Anson Fullerton was responsible for the lethal bombs used in the Consulate? And what would they need to do to prove that?

Unlike Westen, he possessed a simple option on how to keep Glenanne safe.

He would be also looking at the problem with a clearer view than Westen could because he hadn't been manipulated as a behavioral psychology subject, and he wasn't in love with the woman he was trying to protect.

Raines had several ideas on how go about removing Anson's threat, but that meant he'd need to ask for help from people he didn't want to ask for help, like Westen. And his friends. It was time to start throwing balls in the air and see how well they could all juggle. He opened his phone and called Pearce.

#

#

#

Fiona was feeling remarkably well rested and refreshed after spending another night in Dani Pearce's comfortable guest room. Outside, the weather reminded her of Ireland. Fierce wind, icy and chilling, stirred pellets of snow, stinging exposed skin. It felt good. She was grateful for Pearce's generosity and hospitality and was wearing a warm sweater she had loaned her this morning along with the jeans she'd purchased for her two days earlier.

She'd been waiting in Raines' conference room, slowly walking back and forth in front of the board Pearce constructed when she realized another board could be used to illustrate what Michael, Sam, Jesse and Barry had learned about the components Anson was using to rebuild the network Michael thought he'd taken down last year. Vaughn had told him the company Anson was putting back on line had many elements, everything from transportation companies to real estate, bank accounts and blind trusts.

When Raines arrived, she told him another board was needed and why.

"I agree." He pulled out a chair from the conference table and indicated she should take it. His expression was dark.

After she sat and crossed her legs and then her arms, he took the chair next to it. The gesture was self-protective, and he hoped she eventually she might come to view him as a friend, not a threat, but that wouldn't be today.

"You are aware that the way we gained custody of you from the FBI was in claiming you as our asset in an unresolved investigation of an internal security breach which endangers our national interests. We could verify our relationship with you because of several recent occasions where you worked with Westen on ops coordinated by Pearce."

"Yes. I understood that."

"However, despite the positive results from your polygraph, and the preliminary forensic results from the consulate bombing, based on the agreement we made, we are not prepared to release you. I wish we could."

Fiona remained silent, waiting for him to finish.

Raines pushed on. "You targeted a small explosive on the upper level of the Consulate, and although the investigation shows you could not have placed the explosives on the lower level that killed the building's guards, we're left with the fact that you, our asset, a former I.R.A. operative, who, despite your LPR card, planted a bomb on a British Consulate window. Until we have more to show them the Brits insist we return you to the holding facility in Miami."

"I have an LPR? When did that happen?" Fiona wondered.

"Not quite a year ago, when Michael was working with Max. You signed it along with some of other documents before you were allowed to . . . what was that? Ride motorcycles? Not my idea of fun. The point is, we couldn't allow you admittance to a secure Army base, but a Legal Permanent Resident was permitted."

She smiled faintly, remembering the first vacation she and Michael had taken together, but the news Raines brought returned her outlook to gray.

She'd known this was a possibility, just as she'd known when she surrendered, she could spend the rest of her life incarcerated. But she had reached the zenith of her ability to watch Michael compromise himself to do Anson's bidding while simultaneously trying to work against him. She could not go back to watching him wound himself like that, trying to protect her.

Fiona would always take pleasure knowing she had broken Anson's hold on Michael. The resulting pain of being separated from him was a burden she had no choice but to embrace.

"If you were willing to surrender to the FBI for a crime you did not commit to protect Michael, I hope you'll believe I will help him do whatever it takes to put an end to this nightmare you have been living."

"I want to believe that," Fiona said. "Will I be allowed to see Michael or . . ."

"We've resolved the issue of collaboration, so yes, he'll be able to visit you. But he will be busy doing other things."

The door opened and Michael stepped in.

"Right on time, Westen, " Raines said, rising, before looked back at Fiona. "I will do my best, Miss Glenanne."

He glanced at Michael. "You've got about a half an hour."

Michael was looking around the room at the same time he closed the distance between them to wrap his arm around her and steer them both to the small alcove where a bench sat, partially blocked by a large potted plant, opposite the counter where the coffee pot, microwave and small fridge sat.

As they took seats on the bench, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, to her cheek and finally her lips.

"The room has audio and video feeds in the recessed lights," he said quietly. "This is about as private as it's going to get." He turned so that his back and shoulders sheltered her from the camera's view. Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to his solid presence while he smoothed his hands down her back.

"You know what's going to happen then," she said against his neck.

"Yes, and I'm sorry, Fi," he whispered.

Fiona put her fingers over his lips and studied his troubled gaze. "Don't be. Please."

"They're taking you back today, Fi. I don't know when I'll be able to. . ."

She put her hands on either side of his face and said words that had nothing to do with what she was trying to communicate to him. "And just when I was liking the colder weather."

Intensely aware of the listening and watching devices in the room, they stayed there, in the same position, with Michael using his body to shield as much of the camera's view of Fiona as possible, while she struggled to maintain all things positive. He gently pulled her left hand between his to hold her ring finger while searching her eyes. It didn't need to be a question; it needed to be a statement. "Forever, Fi."

It was almost enough at a time when it was too much.

She had also been looking at the location of the audio and video feeds and stood to walk them backward until they were nearly standing in the dim corner. "I need a proper kiss, Michael," she whispered against his lips, and he complied with heated agreement. She rested her cheek against his chest, comforted by the sound of his heart. "And you will do that properly one day, won't you?"

He laughed softly. "I will. I promise."

Her hands had just dropped to hold his when the door opened and Raines and Pearce came in.

"Time to go," Raines said.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

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"We got to tell Mike."

Jesse surveyed the clutter in the loft. Newspapers. Fast food boxes and wrappers. Crushed donut bags. Empty and half empty paper coffee cups. Soda cans. The loft overflowed with trash. Fi's table and chairs sat crookedly at awkward angles, and next to Mike's favorite green chair, a pair of wet socks and a dirty t-shirt left on the floor emitted a disgusting odor. He didn't live here, but he felt violated on Mike and Fi's behalf.

"We got to do more than just change locks and alarm the place," Sam said with disgust.

They had already discovered not a single rifle, shotgun, handgun or phone that had been hidden remained. The F.B.I. had confiscated them, with the knowledge that there would be no way Westen would lodge a complaint.

"We can't tell Fi." When Jesse and Sam spoke the same thought at the same moment, they surprised each other.

"Ever." That word arrived in unison as well.

Sam shook his head and flipped open his phone and dialed.

"Ah, Maddie, we got a situation at the loft and need some advice. No, Mikey's not here. Oh, he is? OK, but the situation is this . . . seems our FBI friends have been camping out while Fi and Mike are gone, and it looks like they, ah, even, ah, slept in their bed. Yeah. I don't want . . . yeah. Yeah. I know you're right. Okay. Yeah, I'll do that. All right. See you soon."

Jesse turned away. "This creeps me out. What'd Maddie's say?"

"There's some laundry place near here Fi likes, so she said to strip the bed and she's coming over to get the bedding and she'll make sure it's OK before Fi gets back."

"Fi is getting back, isn't she?" Jesse had to say it.

Sam just looked at him.

Jesse reached into the small work bag for the tools he needed. "OK, so you clean the fridge and do the kitchen and bed stuff, and I'll start on the doors."

Sam located the box under the sink and started filling it with food left in the fridge and all the stuff on the counter. By the time he was done cleaning the mess, doing the dishes and taking the trash out, Jesse had installed a specialized alarm on the door to the deck and the main door to the loft. He handed Sam a small remote on a keychain. "Don't lose that."

"Because . . . ?"

"State of the art wireless remote with some nifty features. You don't need an external keypad, just a remote. Tamper with the lock, it lets you think you got away with it for 30 seconds, then you get blasted. 180 decibels of pain. What do you think? Hard rock or screeching alarm?"

"Screeching. Scare the crap out of them."

"Yeah."

The main loft door Jesse closed swung open sharply to reveal Maddie on the other side. Apparently Sam's call lit her burner on simmering anger, and it'd reached full boil. "I ought to give those morons a piece of my mind."

She clicked a lighter, lit a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. She surveyed the pile of trash bags in center of the kitchen floor and motioned to the ones by the bed. "Is that everything?"

"Ah, Maddie," Sam began, "you know, Mikey doesn't like when you smoke in here."

"No," he doesn't, " Michael said as he stood in the doorway to survey the loft. "What's going on, guys? Mom, what are you doing here?" He looked travel-worn and tired, and put a coat, jacket and small bag on the bench by the door.

Jesse, Sam and Maddie just stared at him, and Maddie bit the inside of her lower lip. No one said a word of welcome.

"Ah, guys?" Michael asked again, wary at the lack of response. "What's going on?"

"Yeah, hey, Mike, good to see you but I'm just leaving." Sam said, as he looked the opposite direction and nodded to Maddie. "I'll get that stuff and help you out." He turned back and shoved the remote in Jesse's hand. "There you go."

"Me? You're leaving this up to me?" he said, incredulously.

Maddie grabbed a trash bag, turned and kissed Michael's cheek on her way out the door. "Welcome back, honey." Sam had already left.

Michael looked at Jesse. "What's going on?"

Jesse looked down at the remote and handed it to Michael. "This is the remote to your new alarm system. I'm not done with it yet. Don't lose that thing."

"I don't recall asking you to install an alarm."

"Sam and I made that executive decision after we found out it's your buds from the FBI who've been hanging out here since you and Fi left. They've been here for weeks, Mike. They trashed the place, took all your spare guns and phones and, ah, apparently, slept in your bed. This was just a way to keep them out until you got back."

Michael walked over to the kitchen, removed a drawer, knelt and reached up and behind it. He pulled out a Ruger .45 and reached in again and retrieved a phone. "They didn't get everything." He pulled out another drawer and looked behind it. "No, they didn't."

He tucked the gun at the small of his back and studied the pile of trash bags and glanced at the bed that had been stripped. A image of the loft as he'd first seen it flashed an unsettling sense of déjà vu.

"What happened to the bed?"

Jesse told him.

Michael grimaced. "I never thought I'd say this, but it might be . . . a good thing Fi's in prison right now."

"That's what we thought."

#

#

#

By the time Sam returned to his room, the sun had been gone for a couple of hours. When Big Mama was out of town on extended trips, he reverted to what passed as his definition of normal at the Seaside, a rent-it-by-hour-day-week-month motel that had been his main stay, on and off, for the past seven years.

He was not expecting to find someone seated on the small balcony patio overlooking the dimly lit pool area, but at the same time, it wasn't exactly a surprise.

"Commander Axe."

His guest chose an acerbic tone with the formal address he'd used much, much earlier in their careers when they worked field ops in hot spots from Southeastern Asia to the Middle East, before the western European assignments where he came in contact with a young operator he'd recruited, Michael Westen.

Sam glanced around the corner, verifying he was alone, before he took the chair on the opposite side of the table. He tipped his bottle toward Raines. "I'd offer you one, but I brought this with."

When Raines didn't speak, Sam spoke quietly. "I figured you'd show up sooner or later."

"I had to after I read that fairy tale you told Pearce."

"Oh, hell, Raines, what else was I going to do? Fi wanted to stop Mike from sinking deeper with Anson and she wanted my help. It was like watching a disaster you're helpless to stop. You know what I did? I made one damned phone call to Harris, that's all. _That was all. _I'm feeling like Mike, you know? Try to do the right thing and still get burned for it. I can't spin time backwards. If I could . . . " Sam sighed deeply, "I would."

Raines acquiesced. "The blow back from that phone call has had me swimming upstream for two months, Axe. Damn you," he said without anger. "We nearly didn't get her away from them, because they're using you against us. _You're _their leverage now. The spy's best friend helps turn his girlfriend over to the FBI? You're they're go-to guy. You couldn't think of anything else to do? Anything? She's a 93-pound woman!"

"Yeah? Well, she seems . . . bigger. And she's 93-pound woman who can kill you 15 different ways with a hairpin."

Raines laughed softly. "Part of me thinks you're _all _in love with her which means I'm done with all of you, Westen first."

That stiffened Sam's spine. "For the record, he's not the only operative I've worked with who prioritized personal over mission. God knows, women have been the bane of my existence, and," he paused to finish his beer with a long gulp, "yours, too, if memory serves."

"You are not the only one who's mentioned that," Raines replied quietly.

"Well considering he got your wife out of Germany . . . oh, yeah, but she wasn't your wife then, was she?"

Raines just shook his head and stared at flat blue water in the motel pool. "You know how they're playing this, right?"

Sam stretched his legs out. "Yeah, not only am I a rat, I'm Beatriz's Russian conspirator, but I thought that noose around my neck was gone after . . . "

"Not quite."

"I get it. I understand. Geeze, this inter-agency rivalry crap has to stop before something worse happens. Didn't anyone learn a thing after 9-11? About cooperating? Sharing information? Anson played on that, and it allowed him to stay hidden so well you all missed him, and the only guy who said you missed him is on your list because he got involved with an asset fifteen years ago. Ever think you're barking up the wrong tree, Raines? You think Anson isn't taking advantage of that now?"

"We know he is."

After a few moments spent digesting the current state of affairs, Sam realized Raines was missing a piece of information.

"There's something else. Kind of odd for the FBI, but they've been camped out in Mike's loft since sometime after Fi turned herself in. You wouldn't believe the mess they left. Jesse and I surveilled the place, trying to figure out what they were doing there besides taking every spare gun and phone. Harris and Lane were there along with two newbies, but that's going to end. Jesse wired the loft shut today."

"What were they looking for?"

"You ought to ask them that."

Raines stood. "I'll see you in Pearce's office tomorrow. 0600. Be there, Axe."

Sam gave him a two-finger salute. "Yeah."

"This whole situation is like a Gordian knot." Raines said, shaking his head. "Nearly impossible to unravel."

"There was a simple fix for that knot. A sword," Sam drawled.

"You lost that option when you helped Fiona Glenanne to turn herself in to the FBI."

#

#

#

Fiona was dressed in orange again.

The color didn't suit her coloring, and Pearce said so when she arrived shortly after Fiona had been readmitted to the CIA holding facility's solitary confinement unit.

She handed Fiona a small bag containing travel size bottles of shampoo, conditioner, hand and body lotions. There was a soft blanket, a notepad, pen and two books, _Benedictus_ and _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_. Something for the heart, something for amusement, Pearce explained.

Fiona looked at the items with gratitude and confusion. "I thought I wasn't allowed . . . "

"Not this time. Raines arranged for a couple of privileges, and that includes Michael being able to visit you whenever he can. He should be back in Miami soon. You'll still be under surveillance and still in solitary confinement, but these things may help. I guessed you hadn't read any Harry Potter books."

"I haven't. A boy wizard?"

Pearce smiled. "That's the theme."

Fiona had just opened the book when a guard indicated she had another visitor and she was taken again to the small room she'd been in previously to wait for Pearce.

She looked around and realized the omnipotent cameras were getting to her, even if she fully expected they would be there.

Perhaps it had been when Pearce opened the door on her and Michael's too brief moment in her office, or the few moments they had together in Raines' conference room where Michael used his back and arms to shield their privacy from those listening and watching them. She hoped it would be Michael who would walk through the door, but when he did all she could think of was the invasiveness of the cameras watching them. It left her utterly frustrated even as he pulled her up into his arms, pulling her so close she nearly couldn't breathe.

"I hate knowing someone watches us," she whispered against his throat even as she realized he was doing it again, shielding them, positioning his body so their conversation, their exchanges, the sweet kisses, would be shielded, too. "You must have passed Pearce on your way in."

"I did, and that's why I can't stay long," his voice was barely above a whisper. "But I had to see you."

She smoothed her hand across his whiskery cheek and realized he was wearing the same clothing he had on the last time she saw him. "What are they doing to you? Are you being punished?"

He dropped his head so that his forehead touched hers. "I answer questions, lots of questions, Fi. I'm being excluded, and I'm following orders because I don't want to do anything to hurt you. Nothing is going to matter if you end up here for the rest of your life."

#

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#

Raines depressed the speaker button on the desktop phone that allowed Westen, Axe and Pearce to be privy to his phone call from his FBI counterpart.

"So why didn't the operative_ you_ claim as one of yours make you aware of the situation until _after_ his girlfriend, a known IRA bomb specialist, turned herself in?"

"I already explained that is part of the security breach we're trying to fix, part of the same thing we thought we had cleared up last year. I'm telling you, you need to be looking at who at your agency has been in contact with him. There was no way he should have been able to locate Westen outside a secure, private D.C. facility. The only way that happened was to come from someone inside the FBI."

"Maybe you should be looking at Axe."

"CIA asset, _not_ involved."

"Get your house in order, Raines, before you come looking at us."

"Take this seriously. Please."

"I'll think about it after Glenanne has a trial date."

The loud, audible click was indication the call ended.

Pearce looked around the room. Westen and Axe were looking at the floor and Raines was flipping a pen between his fingers like a mini baton.

"He knows he has a leak," she said.

Raines smiled. "Yes, he does. I hope that gives us some breathing room now. He looked over at Axe and Westen. You two good to go?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay, people, same time same place tomorrow. Good luck."

#

#

#

Harris stepped out of the shower at the fitness center and reached for the towel he'd left on bench to find Sam Axe holding it.

"I thought you were my friend, Harris. I ask you a question, you give me an answer, and then you call in a damned SWAT team for a itty bitty woman carrying a big purse. Now that wasn't nice."

Harris stepped and reached for the towel but Sam extended his arm behind himself and took a step back.

"It was bad enough when you decided I needed investigating because we helped out a friend who was trying keep the FSB off her back, but this . . . well, that, that was almost as unfriendly as camping out in Westen's loft. Eating their food, leaving your crap all over the place, sleeping in their bed. Stealing guns, phones."

"Axe, give me the towel," Harris said.

Sam took another step back. "Now who does that? Since when does the FBI do surveillance from inside a private home? What were you looking for?"

"Axe," Harris warned.

Sam took another step back.

"Seems like you were looking for something."

"Axe, the towel," Harris growled.

"Aw, getting chilly? Why were you there?"

Harris took a swing for the towel but Sam backed up even farther.

"Got all the time in world here, Harris."

"Not why, we were looking for a who."

"So who?"

"Anson Fullerton. He was there at some point; we found prints, trackers, listening devices. And another guy, weird status, though . . . Sizemore?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you see him?"

"No," Harris huffed. "Axe, hand over my towel."

"Sure," Sam muttered. "And thanks for sharing." With that he threw the towel in a wall mount urinal and hit flush.

#

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#

Michael met Agent Lane as he walked out of the wide ER sliding doors.

He turned and walked next to him before grabbing his arm and twisting it up and back and shoving Lane into a shadowed alcove next to the well lit entrance. A moment later he released his hold.

"So how are they doing?" Michael asked.

"What the hell did you put in there? They'll be lucky if they don't lose their hearing."

"It's my place. I can put anything in there I want."

"This is serious, Westen," Lane complained. "Those men are suffering serious nerve damage."

"Well, it is serious," Michael agreed. "What were you doing there?"

"I don't have to tell you."

Michael reached, grabbed Lane's thumb, locked it with his thumb and held his elbow, exerting crippling pressure.

"Yeah, you do."

"Fullerton," Lane said, on the exhale of a painful breath. "We were looking for Fullerton."

"Really," Michael said, dropping his hands from the hold he'd had on Lane before he was tempted to do real damage. "And here I thought you guys didn't care."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

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"You," he nodded at Michael, "not only have been compromised, you compounded the problem. And then you kept on compounding it. Thank Glenanne for stopping you before you went some place you couldn't come back from, and it was a damned close call."

Michael closed his eyes briefly at the ludicrous situation he found himself in again, listening as patiently and as humbly as he could possibly manage to another identical lecture from Raines. But, he'd endure it because there was nothing else he could do, no task at hand, nothing. He'd put himself in this operational mode weeks ago. Do what they ask, just do it. Put yourself at the mercy of the CIA for Fiona.

"You think this is funny, Westen?"

Apparently he hadn't hidden that wry grin as much as he'd thought. Michael rose, walked to a window that overlooked a parking deck and put his hands in his pants pockets.

"What do you want me to do, Raines? Ever since Fi turned herself in, I've done everything I can to set this situation right. I don't know what else I can do for you or anyone else. I've answered every question. I've handed over every bit of information I can think of. I've gone where you want me to go, when you want me to go. Followed directions. Got polygraphed. Split the Harris and Lane job with Sam, reported back. You gave me this lecture last week twice, and I lost track how often you said this a month ago. Word for word. I can't change what I can't change."

"You don't seem to grasp what a political hot potato you and your girlfriend passed on to me," Raines said.

"Yeah, well, we all have our crosses to bear."

When silence followed for a few minutes too many, Michael turned around to see what Raines was doing. He was studying a report on his desk, fingers thumping on the cover. When he glanced up, Michael turned back to the window.

For weeks now, he'd found himself fighting against the despair that threatened to overtake him since he lost Fiona.

It had become a struggle every waking hour to maintain some kind of exterior normalcy, so that what he saw if he passed a mirror was not the same man who fought the dark curtain of despondency that encapsulated him, restricted his freedom to breathe and threatened his composure. But, to maintain projecting a calm exterior while securing his ping-ponging emotions was becoming more and more difficult the longer Fiona was without her freedom. The brief moments he had with her were the glue keeping him whole. When Raines spoke, it took him moment to refocus on the present.

"Sometimes I forget that you are the victims."

The word made him bristle. Composure restored itself with instant indignation.

"We are not victims," Michael gritted out.

"Targets, then."

He took a calming breath before agreeing. "Targets."

"Because you are phenomenally skilled at what you do."

He clenched his jaw. "Thanks, Raines, but this version of the lecture isn't going any place. Yada, yada, how could I misuse my abilities? Oh, damn. Well, sorry I lost my patience there for a minute, but feel free to continue lecturing me how I've screwed up your plans to make assistant director."

Raines walked over to the window where Michael had planted himself and held out the folder he'd been looking at.

Michael turned, glanced down at the folder but didn't take it. "What is this?"

Raines continued to hold it out to him.

Finally, he took it and, opening the file, he found a new security badge with his name and photo clipped inside the front of the file jacket along with the report he'd given Max months ago outlining why they had not completed the mission of taking down Vaughn's black ops network. He looked at it, frowned and glanced at Raines and then held up the badge.

"What's the catch? This is for a higher security level than I had five years ago."

"Polygraph. And Fiona passed, too, by the way."

Michael studied the badge for a moment before repeating his question. "What's the catch?"

"No catch."

"I've been . . . reinstated?"

"Temporarily."

Sarcastic weariness grazed his features as he turned away from Raines. "Temporarily."

He turned and shoved the security badge and file back at Raines. "No thanks."

"No thanks?"

"I'm not ready to go from being under Anson's thumb to yours, Raines. I'm not doing the carrot and stick thing anymore, for you or The Company. Forget it." Michael turned and walked toward the door. Leaving, he knew, would be a better decision than slugging the man who had the power to get Fiona out of the CIA holding facility.

"Stop, Westen," Raines said as Michael's hand closed around the doorknob. "It's not temporary; you are reinstated."

Michael swung around and walked back to Raines and grabbed the front of his suit jacket with both hands. "What kind of game are you playing, Raines? I don't get this."

"You don't?" Raines asked.

Michael released his hold and shoved Raines back and away from him. Interestingly enough, Raines did not seem all that offended by what he'd just done. He spared a wary glance his direction.

All the tumblers fell into place as Michael exhaled. "Another test. Dammit, I'm . . . "

"Tired of it. I know."

"Why now?" Michael wondered.

"Several reasons, which begin with the polygraph. You were a step away from being fully reinstated when Max was killed. Anson's not the only DIA psychiatrist. Your files were also reviewed by one of our guys who called you a 'maligned agent, targeted for skills.' After that firefight with Vaughn, that lengthy debrief had been reevaluated. Pearce indicated misgivings, and . . . "

"You always listen to the case officer with misgivings," Michael filled in.

"But we had your history with the CIA for the past year, and the fact that we'd still be in the dark about Anson if you hadn't come in when you did. Given the length of your relationship with Glenanne, your reviewers were sympathetic. Now, we need you to look at Anson's network and the Consulate bombing. You need resources and credibility. Full reinstatement without restriction does that, for you _and_ our friends in the FBI. You'll be running the team that's going after Anson."

"Team?"

"Check the back of the folder. We'll bring on specialists as we need them, as you need them. Consider me clean-up and support."

Michael flipped the file open from the back, looked at the team members Raines recommended.

"My team is missing a member."

"It is. Make the Consulate bombing priority one. I can help. And, something else. I know she was with you when you got my wife out of Germany in '97."

He glanced over to Raines then.

"I didn't realize it until I was reviewing some of the reports you filed early in your career. A couple of dates stood out more than others. For me. Personally."

Michael looked down at the folder and the badge in his hand. It was what he wanted, but not the way he had wanted it five years earlier. It was a tool to use now to regain Fiona.

"I spoke to her this morning," Raines said.

Michael held up the security badge. "Does she know about this?"

"Yes."

#

#

#

Fiona couldn't help but wonder why she was being taken to a small room without windows in a different part of the facility. As had become her new habit, she looked to see where all the eyes and ears were located. She studied the lights, switches and fixtures and tried determine where the audio-video devices were located, but there were no obvious places she could see. She was studying the circular vent above her head when the door opened and Raines walked in.

"Good morning," he said. "There are no cameras or listening devices in this room. The attorneys won't stand for it. Me, either."

"I guess I'll need an attorney then."

"No need. I'll make sure this will be your new area for visitors." He sat down across from her.

"Is Michael all right?" She had to ask.

"He was fine the last time I saw him late last night."

Raines looked as if he was deciding something, she realized.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing's wrong. Something's . . . complicated."

She looked away. "Isn't everything?"

He looked down at his fingers on the table for a moment. Fiona waited, not sure what to expect from "complicated."

"I wonder if you've ever had an . . . experience . . . like I had recently? Seeing something you thought you understood from an entirely new perspective. It started when I was reviewing Michael's agency files, looking at reports he filed a couple of years after he began working for us.

"One of his reports caught my eye. It was 1997. He'd been sent to Germany to extract an operative who'd infiltrated a radical paramilitary unit. He got in, located the operative but received a leg wound in the process of getting out. Fortunately, he was assisted by someone in the IRA who hid him and the agent he'd extracted in one of their safe houses. There was another fight before either the IRA operative, Michael or the agent could get out. They were caught in a crossfire between the IRA and unknown parties. At least the report said the parties were unknown.

"Michael was injured a second time, but not as badly, a ricochet, he described it. Luckily, he had made contact with the team waiting to take them out of the country, but when all three arrived at the prearranged location, they ran into more resistance. He and the agent he'd extracted got out because the IRA agent provided covering fire . . . against some of her own people."

Fiona wasn't sure where Raines planned to go with his story so she remained silent.

"After I read that report, I called home. My wife told me she remembered something unusual about that night, something not in Michael's report, something that had made her laugh. After you both worked to patch him up so they could move out, you kissed him, and then you gave him a black eye."

Fiona had clasped her hands together in front of herself as Raines told his story. She found herself smiling in remembrance.

She looked up and met Raines' gaze.

"He deserved it," she said.

Raines reached over to cup his hands around hers. "Thank you."

She smiled.

"I'm also here to tell you that Michael has been, if he accepts it, reinstated. I expect he'll take it, but . . . "

"Everything has changed."

"Yes. I hope you see him later today."

#

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#

Three days passed before Michael found his way back to Fiona.

Once again, she was waiting, not knowing who she should expect to see come through the door. Guards had escorted her from her cell to the attorney/client room and she was sitting quietly because federal holding facilities, she learned, did not announce guests.

When the door shut behind him, Michael smiled. He knew what the room was typically used for. "Privacy."

She reached for him as he reached for her with the knowledge that this moment was theirs and theirs alone. No one would witness this much needed, so very necessary exchange of greedy tenderness. Once again, he wrapped his arms so tightly around Fiona she thought she might disappear into him, if she could catch her breath.

"Michael," she whispered, urging some space between them. "Michael," she tried to laugh. "Air, please."

He relaxed his crushing hold. "Sorry, Fi. I'm so sorry." He buried his face in the curve between her chin and her neck and placed busy kisses under her jaw to her ear. "I'm so sorry."

His tone of voice and the words he used alerted her that something was out of sync.

She wiggled and gained a small distance between them, and slid her hands down his arms to just under his biceps then pushed out to look at him. "Michael? What's going on?"

He met her gaze, looked away and then moved away from her to sit down with a tired thump on the bench by the table bolted to the floor. He clasped his hands together and looked down and moved his head in one of the variations of the universal negative.

Fiona moved to sit next to him on the bench, and as she did, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. She moved her palm up to cup his cheek and gently moved his face so they were again looking into each others' eyes. She slid her other arm up and across his shoulders, she smoothing muscles that were rock hard tense and taught.

"What are you so upset about?" A tiny flame of panic flickered inside her with a promise to grow.

"I don't know if I can do it, Fi."

"Do what, Michael?"

"I can't find anything to link Anson to the Consulate bombing, and we've been trying. I can't . . . I can't . . ."

"I'm worried about you . . ."

He hugged her tighter as a response.

"Michael, back up. Raines was here and told me you're reinstated. Are you?"

"Yeah."

"So . . .I don't understand why you're so upset. You should be . . ."

" I have to get you out of here, Fi. I have to!"

It was then she took a long, second look at the man she loved and carefully scrutinized each feature. He was gaunt and pale, the skin under his eyes was dark with fatigue, and frown lines seemed permanently etched on his face. "Where are you staying?"

He frowned. "At the loft."

"When was the last time you slept?"

He glanced up but didn't answer her.

"And when was the last time you had a meal?"

"I have some . . . yogurt."

Fiona extracted herself from his arms, then paced in front of him, shaking her head, letting the entire scenario of what he'd been doing come to life.

"You haven't been taking care of yourself."

He frowned at her. "Of course I have. I've just been working . . ."

She held up her hand and started counting fingers. "Stop me when I get something wrong, OK? One, you're at the loft instead of your mother's house because she'll fuss at you until you eat or sleep. Two, if you're at the loft, you won't go to bed or sleep on the couch upstairs. Three, you had two yogurts today and are calling that food. Four, everyone around you is grumpy or grouchy because you're unpleasant. Five . . . "

Michael reached for her hands and held them together, placing a soft kiss on each of her knuckles. "Enough, Fi. Point taken. I am . . . tired."

"You are."

Michael still held her hands, but she returned his gesture by kissing his hands and pulling him closer so she could wrap her arms around him and look up into his face. "Please, go to your mother's house. Don't stay at the loft. Let her pester you into taking care of yourself. For me, please?"

He pulled away from her and with an exasperated frown and instant irritation in his voice spoke in an unpleasantly disagreeable manner. "Fiona, I do not need you to harass . . . "

It was Michael's instant change of tone that nicked Fi's safety off. She drew back her fist and in the blink of an eye, and with all the force she could marshal, whacked her beloved's face. "I most certainly do need to harass you!"

Not expecting the blow, Michael's head snapped to the left. "Ouch," he yelped. "That hurts, Fi."

"Good! Maybe it'll remind you to take care of yourself. Now, go to your mom's house, take one of her sleeping pills and sleep. Tomorrow morning, take her out for breakfast so you can eat something decent, too. And come see me tomorrow," she said, losing some of her steam. "Because I'll need to see you tomorrow," she added in a much, much softer tone of voice.

He smiled, closed the distance between them and took her in his arms again, and, with a much lighter heart than he had moments earlier, kissed her deeply. When she finally opened her eyes to look into his, he asked. "Are you going to do this after we're married?"

She gently pulled his head down to place her lips on the faint red spot under his eye. "Maybe."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

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Pearce was smiling as she climbed the steps to Westen's loft. She realized the more often she was here, the easier it was to see the odd charms of the place. She would have preferred meeting in the secure comfort of the CIA offices, but her new teammates were adverse to the setting, particularly Barry, who treated her as if she had an infectious disease and faintly shuddered when he looked at her.

She had been uncomfortable when Raines explained Westen would be leading this particular unusual team, but there was no doubt it would take those who had already hunted Fullerton to devise ways to eliminate him.

Unfortunately, since they started working together, it had been the worst kind of work.

Michael had grown an incredibly short temper the instant he was reinstated.

Today she planned to speak to him privately. His attitude was affecting everyone negatively and that made for counterproductive activity.

At least she had something good to bring to the table today. Finally. Snooping on one's friends wasn't good manners or politically correct, but the post-WikiLeaks days of national security had produced some wonderful results. Following up wouldn't exactly be following protocol, but then, she was learning to see the charms of that, too.

Positive attitude firmly in place, she opened the loft door and stepped inside. Porter and Axe were already there, continuing to look through the piles of materials they'd accumulated during their brief but intense examination of all things Anson Fullerton. She had been surprised by the quantity and extent of information they assembled prior to the CIA's involvement.

The priority was the Consulate bombing, then the larger problem of Fullerton or so their team leader designated, and that's where they were stuck. At the Consulate. But, she thought cheerfully, maybe not after today.

Jesse looked up from his laptop screen and did not return her smile. "Morning."

Sam grunted something indecipherable that sounded vaguely like a greeting.

"Cheer up, guys, I have some good news."

"We could use some," Jesse said. "Dead end here." He closed the laptop and glanced at Sam who was continuing to work his angle on Anson's combat network radio system.

When the door opened and Michael entered, the three exchanged glances before quickly looking back to what lay on the counter. Jesse opened his laptop again.

"Oh, good, he's here," Sam said under his breath.

Michael set a small cardboard tray holding three coffee cups in the middle of the workbench between the folders and the files and the laptops, and then he hoisted a carton of six rather expensive bottles of beer and set it in front of Sam.

Pearce, Jesse and Sam glanced over at him at the same time, looked down at the beverages then back to Michael.

No one said a word until Michael broke the silence. "I'm sorry."

Pearce and Sam exchanged a glance. Forgiveness was not going to be that simple.

Jesse leaned back, crossed his arms across his chest and evaluated Michael's face. "Did Fi give you that?"

Michael could feel heat crawl up his neck. The bruise under his left eye throbbed. He nodded. "She did."

"She put you on your butt, too?" Jesse wondered.

Sam and Pearce both turned slowly to look at Jesse who was staring Mike down.

Michael acknowledged the meaning behind the question. "No, that honor is yours alone, Jess."

"So is it screwed on straight yet or . . . "

Michael continued to hold Jesse's gaze and answered. "I'm working on it." He turned back to Sam and Pearce. "I'm sorry, I know I've been . . . "

"Obnoxious and rude," Pearce filled in.

"A jerk," Sam said as he opened a bottle.

"I really am sorry, guys," Michael said quietly as he passed a cup of coffee to Jesse and the other to Pearce. He was ready to take a sip from the cup he'd brought for himself when Sam raised his bottle, and tipped it first toward Jesse and then Pearce, and then the lush, yellow orchid Fi had brought into the loft months earlier.

Sam had moved the exotic plant that continued to bloom in her absence to the counter and started calling it Fiona.

"To Fiona and Jesse who won't take crap from Mikey."

"To all my good friends," Michael added, as they all took a sip from their cups. "Can we move on? Please?"

Pearce smiled. "Nice to hear the word please, Westen." She reached into her purse to produce a file folder. "Look what we found."

"What's that?" Michael asked.

"Strings to pull, trails to follow," she said opening the file. "About a year ago the OMB sent a directive to all federal departments and agencies advising them to set up insider threat programs."

"Yeah," Sam said, remembering the fuss. "Hell of a thing. Spy on your buddies, send your co-workers to jail. Take paranoia to levels previously unseen in the Education and Ag Departments."

Pearce laughed at Sam's synopsis. "The plan included stuff like foreign travel debriefings and psychiatric assessments to identify employees who might be viewed as untrustworthy or potential information leakers, no matter which federal agency they worked for."

"Rat out your cubicle buddy. Why not?" Sam said.

"It's still a hot issue because _insider threat_ is code language for spies, and the entire program actually looks like something intended for use by intelligence agencies. Each department made assessments before the program began, but politics being politics, those initial documents had to be destroyed. We requested looking at everything prior to destruction, scanned them in and code word searched. Depending on the search parameters you use, you can find several interesting things that can be found no where else. Guess whose name showed up and . . . "

Michael took the paper from Pearce's hand and quickly flipped through it.

"I thought you were working on improving your manners, Mikey," Sam said.

"I am. No, look . . .this stuff was some of the stuff Anson got . . . me," Michael took a deep breath, "to erase with Oswald's Void-BOT software. This must have been printed before we . . . I . . . did that."

Pearce glanced down at the paper. "More like it was in a separate system not connected to the OMB. Stealing that software from the FBI, I did think that was pretty gutsy."

"Yeah, we nearly got dead," Jesse remembered.

"And we didn't really steal it," Michael clarified. "We borrowed without permission. We gave it right back, though, plus they got an arrest out of it, none the wiser for the side trip."

Michael continued to look at the references to Anson before he looked up and smiled at his team. "I've got something to add to this, too. Box 378B."

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"That's the box in the secure mail facility in the British Consulate where I was supposed to place the pouch I swapped out for Larry, the job engineered by Anson, before Fi detonated the T4 outside the window where Larry was at. If we find who has or had that box, we might be able to identify who inside the Consulate might be working with Anson. Or Larry, if he's still here."

"Go back to the Brits . . ." Pearce said, thinking about this new ramification. "The reason the FBI is retaining custody of Glenanne is because of the Brits . . . if her action prevented something, it's . . ."

"The way we get Fi out of prison," Jesse said as he watched Michael's face.

"Yes," Michael agreed softly.

"Why'd you remember that box number now?" Jesse asked.

"I don't know."

There was no way he was going to let them know it was the first thing on his mind after a decent night's sleep.

#

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#

"Convenient, this room," he said. "Private, too. No recording of my visit."

Anson's slivery snake voice had always irritated Fiona. This was not an exception. She stood the moment he came through the door to her new visiting area. "How in the hell did you get in here?"

"I'm your attorney, Fiona. Every prisoner has an attorney, some more effective than others."

When Anson entered the room, Fiona began slowly moving away, putting distance between herself and him while she assessed her situation.

She knew he was searched before he arrived, so he should have no weapons. What kind of martial arts he knew, she couldn't be certain, but the starting place for hand to hand conflict was to be upright, balanced, alert and prepared.

"What do you want?" she asked calmly.

"Oh, Fiona, I want the same things I've always wanted, things you made go away. Now I want all of them back. You're in here permanently, but I'm not, and you won't be able to do anything about it. I need my money back, and you're going to help me by managing Michael for me."

She could see Anson was attempting to close the distance between them which left her comfortable with her initial evaluation. His body language told her he intended to attack, and that he was angry.

It was the injustice of his manipulation of Michael and Madeline's lives that provided the backdrop for her mental preparation. She was still and calm inside. She knew she would survive this, and he would not. Anson had spent countless hours studying Michael and his family, devising ways to force his cooperation, but he didn't know her. He only thought he did.

"I wouldn't count anyone helping you," she said.

"You are more stubborn than Michael, so we're doing this differently. Little Charlie is going to disappear if you don't convince Michael to undo the damage he's done."

"Do you really think I'd allow you to hurt a child?"

"That is your thing, isn't it? Fiona? Children, little sisters especially."

Fiona smiled. "You know me so well."

She saw the light in his eyes change as he moved toward to her, and she knew the only way this could begin or end would be to close the distance. She allowed him to edge the gap between them an inch at a time, and clenched her fists.

When lunged, she stepped to the side, as slippery as a cat, and with every bit of force she could use, smashed her fist into his face, dislodging his glasses. She heard them skitter across the floor.

It stopped him, but he recovered quickly and lunged. She spun away to come back with another hard jabbing fist in the center of his chest as he tried to right himself, then sent a sharp elbow to his ribs and, twisting back, she rammed the heel of her hand up under his chin, as her stronger, dominant hand delivered a wicked chop to his carotid artery at the juncture of his larynx. He gasped, stumbled and dropped.

She straightened up and looked down, satisfied, then used two fingers to feel for a pulse. That was good; he was still alive. She wouldn't mind killing him, but this was not the place for it, as tempting as it had been. That would be a complication she wouldn't need. Taking a deep breath she inhaled then slowly exhaled. She needed to be physically calm before she called the guard to report her attorney's sudden, unexpected collapse.

Fiona knew she had dealt with the immediate threat, had prevented him from mounting a second offensive and neutralized him. Standard procedure for dealing with an enemy. She had to smile. If Anson had studied the natural world, he would have known the most dangerous beast in the jungle was not the lion, but his mate.

Reaching down, she relocated his glasses closer to his body and pounded on the door, calling for a guard.

"He clutched his throat and collapsed," Fiona said to the guard who entered, immediately assessing the crisis. A second guard appeared after the first guard called for help, and a third appeared to escort Fiona back to her cell.

"What happened there?" the guard wondered as he took her back to her cell.

"He clutched his throat right before he collapsed," she said truthfully.

She was saying her prayers Michael would be here sooner instead of later.

#

#

#

It was Pearce, not Michael who arrived next.

After Fiona rushed to explain that Anson presented himself as her attorney and then related what happened next, including Anson's threat against Nate's son, Pearce left quickly and Fiona was taken back to her cell.

She detested being in the dark, but she had no choice but to wait. The next time the guard appeared to escort her to the attorney/client room, she asked him if he knew what happened to her lawyer, but he'd just come on the shift and didn't know.

Pearce reappeared, full of information.

Anson had left the building by ambulance, however before it arrived at the medical center, he'd managed to free himself from blood pressure and heart monitors, chest and leg restraints, and escaped on foot when the ambulance had been slowed by traffic. The EMTs were at a loss as to why he had done that.

Anson's threat against Nate's child was being taken very seriously, and with the exception of Michael, all the Westen family members were being relocated to a secure facility until the situation could be reassessed.

"Until we know who is working with him, we're not going to do anything but keep them safe," Pearce explained.

"Madeline won't like that," Fi said.

"No," Pearce sighed, "she certainly doesn't. Michael was talking with them, and that helped. I saw the tapes from Anson's entrance in the facility. I'm still having a hard time believing he thought he could get away with attacking you in here."

"He's not sane," Fiona said. "I don't have to be a psychiatrist to recognize crazy when I see it."

Pearce set a digital recorder on the table. "I need to do this."

"Sure."

When they were finished, Pearce commented on the bruising on Fiona's knuckles.

"I learned a variation of krav maga a long time ago; it's better to be bruised than dead. And," Fi said with a smile, "it was worth it."

Pearce looked down and grinned. "And it seemed to have improved Michael's attitude, too."

Fiona laughed. "Good. That means he finally slept."

#

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#

The next time Fiona saw Michael he bore every bit of evidence of a man who had not slept in the previous 24 hours if not longer.

As he entered the attorney/client room to take Fiona in his arms, he held on, hugging her to him, like a man who needed to absorb her into himself. Fiona kissed his lips, his cheek, his neck and leaned back to put her hands on either side of his face to get a better look at him.

His eyes were dark; he was not at peace. She lay her head on his chest and moved closer to him, wrapping her arms up under his jacket, caressing his back. When he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her as if she would disappear, she responded in kind, and found her back against the wall as they slid to the floor.

"I need you, Fi," he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek, her neck. "But not here."

She ached for the truth of that. "But not here."

They sat like that, next to each other, holding each other until finally a guard knocked on the door.

Wearily, they rose, and she put her lips on his, gently, softly. "Go and sleep. I love you, Michael."

"Forever, Fi."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

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Leaving was hard. Painful. Troubling.

After he left Fiona he passed through three checkpoints to retrieve his car keys, wallet, knife and his .45, before taking a long, slow walk out of the building. He opened the car door, sat in the drivers seat and studied the dim aura of light around the concrete building that held his heart prisoner. He knew the dull ache created by an undercurrent of fear began coursing through his bloodstream that moment when she'd turned away from him, hands above her head, guns pointed at her back.

It was an unsettling image that rose and ebbed during his waking hours, and always sharpened as the day grew longer. Tonight, the humidity threw a pale fog-like blanket over the landscape and muted sound. It was never easy to leave her, or her touch, or her scent, or her taste. Every single time he left, loss renewed itself, expanded exponentially and created an urgency he could barely quell.

He started the car and turned around to go to his mother's house where he knew he'd be able to sleep tonight without either her well-intended conversation or the renewable cloud of cigarette smoke she imparted.

He touched the small, painful lump under his left eye. Although his mother urged him to _do something_ about the bruise, he wasn't about to use ice or do anything to make it go away faster. He needed the discomfort as a reminder of the extreme measure she'd taken to make sure he understood what she was saying.

Fi's methods were not conventional, but they were uniquely Fi. And just as she could make him see something he didn't want to, he knew she granted him the ability to quell her easily pricked temper in a way no one else could. All he needed to do was to put his arms around her and gently hold her with silence until she regained her calm and rational self.

On the drive to his mother's house, his thoughts focused on Fiona's confrontation with Anson. As a DIA psychiatrist, he was familiar with procedures to visit someone in a secure CIA holding facility. It was a simple thing for him to present himself as an attorney.

Anson understood the CIA's conventional wisdom in regard to those they hunted. It was easier to let someone continue to operate with freedom of movement. Easier to follow their activities, easier to link together those who worked with them. Easier to hunt.

Michael had wanted to put Anson on the watch list, but Raines suggested waiting as the better course. It wasn't like Fiona couldn't take care of herself, he'd said.

And as much as he'd wanted to argue with him, it was obvious even an unarmed Fiona could take care of herself.

He was certain Anson had not planned on leaving the prison by ambulance. The psychiatric manipulator failed to grasp the essential element of his confrontation with Fi. He approached her as if _he _was the predator, the aggressor, an idea Fi so thoroughly disabused him of that Michael was now convinced Anson wouldn't attempt that again.

When he turned down his mother's street, he was stunned by what lay before him, and pulled over and parked two doors away from her house. The street was brightly lit by flashing red, white and blue lights on top three Miami-Dade patrol cars parked at angles in front of the house.

As he walked toward the scene, he heard Laura, his mother's neighbor's squeaky voice. "There, that's her son! Michael. Talk to him. He can tell you what you want to know."

Laura was the neighbor he, Fi and Sam had helped her five years earlier when they recovered money a group of scam artists had stolen from her, and had broken her arm in the process. Whenever his mother was out of town, Laura was very conscientious to keep watch over her house, and he assumed she called the police. Michael walked over to speak to her and the police officer she was talking to.

"We caught someone trying to break into your mother's house, and we need to know if she wants to press charges, but we can't locate her. Do you know where she is, sir?" the officer asked.

"Currently, she's under federal protection," Michael explained and watched the cop's eyebrows elevate as he showed him his agency ID. "What happened here?"

"Over here, Mr. Westen," the officer explained as he returned the ID to Michael. When he looked into the back seat of the vehicle, Michael was stunned. Larry met his gaze then looked away. "We caught him trying to break into your mother's home."

It shouldn't have been that easy.

Michael studied the man in the back of the police car and wondered if this was a gift from the gods or something far more sinister.

"Sir?" The cop said, after Michael had been silent too long. "Is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Congratulations, officer. You've just arrested one of the CIA's most wanted fugitives. Good work."

Disbelief had the cop frowned at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, officer, I am. Excuse me, I need to call this in." With that, he called Raines. "Miami-Dade just captured Larry Sizemore trying to break into my mother's house. You need to . . . no. No, Raines, I am not joking."

He was still on the phone when Sam arrived. He watched him shake hands with one of the cops, exchange a few words with another and then peek into the back of the cop car that held a handcuffed and unhappy Larry. He reached Michael just as he ended his call to Raines. There was a wide smile on his face.

"Now there is something I never thought I'd get to see, good old Larry in handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser. At least he didn't put up a fight, not with three cops taking aim at him, because Larry being Larry, that could have ended differently."

"How'd you get here so fast?" Michael wondered.

"I've been monitoring a scanner since Anson's threats. Heard Maddie's address. Did you notice it looks like Fi's T4 singed his face? Too damn bad he's still alive. I was hoping he'd been vaporized in that explosion."

"Be glad he wasn't," Michael said. "Raines wants to put him in a cell next to Vaughn, and we'll be listening in since they have so much in common . . . me."

Sam laughed. "Your ears are gonna burn, Mikey. Those guys hate you."

"I know."

#

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#

Early the next morning, before Larry was relocated to his new confines next to Vaughn, Michael paid his former co-worker a visit. Their relationship as expert and novice had morphed into Larry's obscene obsession with Michael, and no matter how hard he'd tried to eliminate the guy when he reappeared after faking his death, he kept popping back up. Michael hoped this would be the final chapter in a bad book.

He was impressed with the level of armed security surrounding Larry who had escaped from a prison after murdering the warden. Raines made sure the security around Larry was at the same level as Vaughn's. Impressive.

On this visit, Michael kept cage bars between himself and Larry who wore the same color orange as Vaughn, the same color Fi was stuck in, only Larry wore chain-shortened shackles on his legs and wrists. There was no sense in providing Larry an opportunity to do harm, not when Michael could see by the glint in his eyes that Larry would kill him given the smallest of openings.

But Michael had a purpose for this visit. A task to accomplish, and then he'd report to Raines when he was done.

"Kind of surprised you survived that blast, Larry."

"Your girlfriend's not as good as she thinks she is."

"Still, looks like you got nipped. That looks painful," Michael commented, looking at the healing wounds to the left side of his face, neck and arm.

"Michael Westen, free again. How _do_ you do it?" Larry growled.

"Luck," Michael said, shaking his head. "So, did you end up with any money from that diplomatic transaction? Or did Anson take that, too?"

"Anson?"

"Come on, Larry. You know, the guy you paid to get you out of prison. The guy you were stealing those documents for. Anson Fullerton. You introduced us."

When Larry didn't reply Michael had his answer, but he frowned as if he was confused. "You didn't know?"

Larry's gaze narrowed, lethally.

Michael twisted the knife. "Anson, yeah, that was pretty slick convincing you that you had kidnapped him and put a bomb around his wife's neck. He was playing you. Turned out it wasn't his wife. He said he had to go to a lot of trouble to set it up so you thought_ you_ were kidnapping_ him_, and then he used you to blackmail me and Fi."

He could tell Larry was assessing this revelation. And not in a good way.

"So, Lar, how does it feel to be a cog in Anson's wheel? Be a useful tool? I've never been fond of that role myself. I bet he was going to pay you with the money you paid him to get you out of that prison in Albania. Adds something to it, don't you think? Which reminds me, why were you trying to break into my Mom's house? She's out of town."

Larry continued staring and not speaking.

"Not feeling chatty. I understand that. Last I heard, they were deciding whether to keep you here or send you to Guantanamo. Got a preference? I can put in a good word for you."

When he didn't respond, Michael grinned. "Not asking twice. Take it easy, Larry."

He turned and left the facility, escorted out by an armed guard, assured that he'd sown all the seeds of injustice Larry needed to fuel his hatred, and, with luck, it'd spill it over on Vaughn. And when that happened, they'd be listening. "Get that Raines?" he asked, angling his face in the direction of his jacket lapel.

The communicator stuck in his ear responded. "Every word. Well done, Westen."

Time to see Fi and tell her the good news.

#

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#

"Oh, I don't think that was a good idea," Fiona said, after Michael explained his one-sided conversation with Larry an hour earlier. "Larry and Vaughn in proximity to one another? Was that Raines' idea?"

"They'll be in cages, Fi, inside the highest of high security areas. Raines wants to listen in."

"Does this mean your mom and Nate and Charlie and Ruth get to come home?"

"Not yet. And they're not happy about it, but I'm kind of happy about something else."

Michael was sitting on one of the benches, his back against the table, while Fi was sitting on his lap, her arms curled around his neck and shoulders, her fingers in his hair, his arms around her waist, their faces intimately close, a mere breath away from each other. They had greeted each other as lovers who had been parted for months instead of less than a day, needing everything about each other. Their conversation was soft, low, intensely personal even if their words were not.

"What's that?"

He smiled. "The diplomatic pouch that was to have gone in that box number I finally remembered, was tagged to an MI5 operative in the UK who they had been investigating for almost six months. If it turns out some of those weapons in Anson's Tampa facility were sold to him, then . . ."

"Then . . . ?" she urged.

Michael smiled. "Barry followed that transaction after he found the first one that took us to that law office and connected Vaughn to Anson. I don't think the Brits will want to keep you, not if the damage to the Consulate was caused by a CIA asset who averting a national security breech, kept illegal guns from their homegrown terrorists, and kept several of their people from being burned."

Fi slid to the floor and stood. "Good grief, Michael. That's . . . insane."

"Which part?" he asked. "You helping the Brits or the idea that the way out of this place just showed up? It's a matter of perspective."

"If my brothers . . ."

"Your brothers are going to be happy you're not in prison," he said quietly, "and I will, too, Fi. I will, too."

It was too tempting for Fiona to believe. "Wouldn't the FBI need to agree to that? And what about those two guards who died? Will Anson be charged with that?"

Michael knew how that pained her. "That T4 could be linked to Anson's Tampa facility, so that's why we've requested copies of the forensic ballistics reports. We believe it's the same, but we need proof. If it is, then Anson would make the most wanted list and that should make everyone . . .

Fiona interrupted. "More afraid of him. I wish I would have been able to . . ."

Michael stopped her from speaking by enclosing her in his arms and lowering his lips to hers. "I wish we could have gotten custody of him then, too."

They studied one another somberly. If Fi had killed Anson when he's visited her in prison, she would have been charged with his death. Instead, she had played it safe.

"It would have been a lot easier if I could have called you to warn you what had happened," she said. "We're back to damned if you do and damned if you don't," Fiona said. "I'm tired of it."

"Fi, I'm just hoping we have enough evidence to get you out before the end of the week, maybe the first of next," Michael said softly.

#

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#

Ten days later, shortly after the Tampa forensic reports and the CIA analyses were filed with the British Consulate and MI5, and following several intense conversations with the FBI regarding their eagerness to keep a CIA asset incarcerated without cause, Fiona was released.

Raines started the ball rolling and had the paperwork sent to the facility first; then he called Michael.

Michael had been working with Pearce and Jesse on trying to figure out where the most logical places for an information leak inside the FBI when Michael picked up his phone, after checking the caller ID. "Yeah, Raines?"

He listened for a moment before closing the phone. "Got to go," he said and left.

Pearce was amazed with the speed at which Westen left. "Wonder what that was about?" she said to Jesse.

She was surprised to find him smiling. "What's going on, Porter?" she asked.

"Fi's out."

"How do you know that?" she asked. "He didn't . . . "

"The bag's gone. It's in his car. Noticed that on the way in."

"Bag?"

"Yeah. Fi's stuff. He had it packed about a week ago. It's been sitting by the door."

"Brown? Leather?" Pearce said, remembering seeing the bag, then looking beyond Jesse's shoulder toward the door. He was right; the bag was no longer located where she'd seen it. "Huh. You ever think about working in intelligence?" she said dryly.

That earned her one of Jesse's booming laughs, just about the same time Sam came in the door.

"Hey, where's Mikey flying off to?" he wondered.

"Fi's out," Jesse explained.

"When?"

"Dunno," Jesse said, "But . . . "

Sam turned around. "Yeah, her bag's gone."

Pearce shook her head and smiled at Sam. "So you work in intelligence, too."

Jesse laughed again.

Sam shook his head. "I'm guessing we'll see them sometime tomorrow . . . maybe."

#

#

#

Fi was dressed in the jeans and a lacy camisole she'd worn under the sweater Pearce had loaned her. She was carrying a bag with some small items, which Michael took from her as he escorted her to a grey Honda that didn't look anything like the Charger or her Hyundai. And the direction he headed wasn't toward the loft.

"Michael?" she asked, savoring everything around her. Air. Light. Wind. Sun. Freedom.

He just smiled at her.

They hadn't traveled far when he turned down a quiet street, then another, and one more, before turning into a pleasant, well tended alleyway. There was a garage door opener on the sun visor. He hit it and the door opened and he drove the car inside, closing the door after he shut off the engine. The garage was filled with light from windows and a door at the other end which opened onto a private garden area.

Fi stepped out, while Michael brought her things and then lifted a small brown bag she recognized.

The secluded garden bloomed between tall stone walls on either side, that were draped with colorful splashes of lush bougainvilleas and led to a private porch with wicker chairs. She looked around, a question still in her eyes, but smiled, charmed by what she was seeing.

He followed behind her and set the bags on one of the chairs while he unlocked the back door into a kitchen area. There was a table and two chairs there, refrigerator, stove, microwave and dishwasher. Fiona walked ahead, exploring.

A small living room was next, empty of furniture. It had light colors hidden behind wide blinds that were closed against the sun. To one side, a small bedroom, empty. A bathroom. To the other side what must be the master bedroom with a bed in the center of the room, bare of bedding. An empty walk in closet, and a bathroom with a spacious garden tub and shower and double sink area were opposite the sliding glass door to the garden, hidden now by vertical blinds shut to block the sun, to create privacy.

Michael had been following her, watching her, carrying her things with him. He set them down on the floor.

"Is all of this . . . privacy . . . for us?" she asked as she walked to him and looked up into his face.

He nodded and gave her a small smile.

She closed the small distance between them, then closed her eyes with a sense of bliss as she slid her hands up his chest to tug his head closer to hers. Peace. Homecoming. Reunion. Joy.

Pulling his hands, she tugged him toward the bed, and reached to unbutton his shirt. "I want you to tell me all about this, Michael," she said softly. He offered no resistance when she gently pushed him down on the bare mattress. "But, later, please. Later," she whispered.

He offered her a tender smile and all of his heart as he pulled her to him then turned them so he could look down into her face. He stroked her cheek and held her gaze. "I love you, Fi."

His lips reached hers lightly, softly. "Forever."

She reached to pull him closer still to her. "I need you, Michael." Gently, he brushed away the tear that came unbidden to her.

"And I am lost without you," he said, kissing the salty moisture on her face.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

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It was time out of time, time away from time, time alone, and Fi knew this time together with Michael was a gift from heaven, a star born wish she'd locked away in her heart for wanting too long.

Time lost meaning although the changing light patterns on the ceiling told them it was early evening now that they had found each other again. And again. It didn't matter that their bed was without sheets or pillows. All that mattered was they were together, they were alone with each other and the outside world was . . . outside.

Fiona turned to slide her arm around Michael's waist, rested her head on his shoulder and slipped her leg over his. "Tell me about this place," she said, kissing his bare chest, gently rubbing her fingers across his soft skin.

He kissed the top of her head, threaded his fingers through her hair and caressed her shoulder. "Do you remember the real estate agent who showed you that condo before you moved to the loft? I ran into her while I was waiting at Carlitos to take food back to the loft a couple of weeks ago. She asked me if you'd found a place and I told her I was looking for someplace for us, something private. This house belongs to her sister. She's a teacher who's studying in Japan. She wanted to lease it privately, and when I saw it, I hoped you might like it . . . so we can lease it if you'd like for a year or so . . ."

"What about the loft?"

"I didn't want to tell you, but while we were gone, the FBI moved a surveillance team into the loft. Four people. Jesse and Sam discovered it while we were in D.C. together. They trashed the place, confiscated guns and took the extra phones, slept in . . . the bed. Mom took all the bedding and stuff to a cleaners, but the more I thought about it, I thought you wouldn't want to go back there now. We're using it for work, but I want some place for us, something personal, some place where we can just be . . . us . . . and maybe not tell anyone where we are for a while . . . "

Fiona smiled. "When did you learn to read my heart so well?"

"It's what I want, too, Fi . . . "

She kissed his cheek before she rested on his chest again, listening to his heart beat.

"Whose car was that?" she wondered.

"Her sister's. She asked if she could leave it here, maybe have us drive it once in a while. I'm thinking this place is under the radar, but in plain sight . . . what do you think?"

Fi pushed up to place her hands on the mattress on either side of his head. She smiled and leaned down to kiss him, her hair a silken curtain around them. "Thank you, Michael. This is exactly . . . perfect."

One kiss led to two and then three before she sighed snuggled next to him again. "We need a few more things, like towels and bedding."

"They're in the laundry room. I didn't get that far yet," he said. "I did get some food. Are you hungry?"

Fiona sat up. "How long have you been here?"

"A little more than a week. I helped move her sister's stuff out and got the bed and table and chairs moved in and got some new sheets and towels . . . I was waiting for you . . ."

"I missed you so much," she said leaning down to kiss him before stretching the length of her body next to his, using her finger tips to softly outline his face. She pressed delicate kisses to his forehead and eyelids, his nose, his lips until he turned to take that pleasure for himself. They lost themselves once more in each other with a depth of tenderness that marked no other part of their lives except what they shared with each other.

And when they were complete, Michael's arms tightened around her and he trembled as he touched his face to hers. "I can't lose you like that again, Fi. I . . . can't."

When he moved to kiss her and opened his eyes, he could see they were sharing the same troubling wound. He brushed her tears away with his hands as she brushed his with her hands.

Abruptly, he pulled away and left the bed for a few seconds to get something from his clothing. "I know," he said very quietly, "this isn't what you said you wanted. And I know that this won't be what you meant when you asked if I would do this properly, but I've had it for long time, Fi and . . ."

She looked down to his hand, to what lay in his palm and felt her ability to breathe cease. With her hand over her heart, she found the memory rushed at her with the force of a cresting wave dropping into a trough.

It happened soon after they first met in Ireland, soon after she knew whatever grace made it possible for them to find each other in a world full of other people, was a lifelong gift some never receive and others spend their lives searching for.

It was a wintry cold day with a deeply blue sky that imitated the color of Michael's eyes. They had been working, scouting the area, walking hand in hand past shops and pubs when they sensed they were being followed so they stopped. Michael put his arm around her shoulders as they pretended to look in a shop window but used the glass reflection to see who might be behind them. Michael was ready to move on and started to step away, but she had been distracted by a small display of Claddah rings in the window. The elegant simplicity of one plain gold band with its hands and heart captured her attention.

Perhaps it was because her love for Michael was so newly realized. Perhaps it was because her soul recognized she had just made love to the only man she would love in her life, that when he asked what she was looking at she told him. Had she been able to protect her heart better in that moment, she might not have done that but her heart was burgeoned with honesty. She found herself explaining the meaning of the ring with its symbols for love, friendship and loyalty. And marriage. If there had been a wistfulness when she looked up into his face, she knew she had not been able to hide it. In that instant, she had been able to hide nothing from him. Not her heart or her love for him.

She remembered the moment so clearly, as she told him about the Claddah, watching his face when he'd listened to her explain the ring's message, that moment in time held an image that imprinted her heart. And now, to see the small gold ring in his hand.

When he started to speak, she moved her fingers over his lips.

"Is it the same one?" she asked in a whisper. "You've had it all this time?"

He nodded, and she could not stop the tears that slipped down her cheeks. "Please, Michael," she said, "please be my love, be my husband, be my loyal friend for the rest of my life."

His lips were sweet against hers. "Forever, Fiona," he said, as he placed the ring on her finger and sealed that promise with another kiss.

They sat there, arms around each other until Michael laughed softly. "We need a priest to marry us."

"Yes," she said somberly. "But not until we are free . . . "

Like many other times, the good that could be, the good they wanted, would to stay out of reach.

"Yes. Then."

#

#

#

Fi examined the features of the coffee pot and found everything she needed close at hand. Coffee, Filters. Water. Cups.

Like all of the other items that Michael brought into the house, the coffee pot was new and had never been used. As she checked the kitchen cupboards and found the essential, basic items, and then the contents of the refrigerator, she smiled and wished she could have worn a cloak of invisibility so she could have watched as he went about choosing the things for the house.

How did he choose the small set of dishes and utensils, cups and glasses? It warmed her to think of Michael doing such small and important things. The sheets, now freshly on the bed, the towels. All new things. A washer and dryer were conveniently hidden behind a double door near the breakfast nook. She smiled. If she could have ordered a place to live, she realized it would look exactly like this.

When the coffee finished brewing, she poured a cup for Michael and another for herself and walked back to the bathroom where she found him shaving. She set his cup on counter and watched him, and when his eyes met hers, he nicked himself, something very un-Michael like. He smiled sheepishly and dabbed at his chin.

Fiona loved the intimacy of the moment, but as she watched him finish and rinse his razor and the sink, she realized what else she was seeing in his eyes.

"You sent yourself back to work."

He smiled. "You left. I had to do something."

"So . . . ?"

"Fi, I want us to have more time together. We haven't even had a day yet," he said reaching down to delicately caress her cheek with his hand before he leaned down to kiss her.

"We will. Bring your coffee. Let's have breakfast. You can tell me what you're working on. I'm hungry." She reached for his hand but instead he carefully took the cup from her and set it next to his before he returned to nuzzle her neck and ear. "I'm hungry, too."

Somehow the towel he wore and the one she wore landed on the floor together. Fiona's freshly made bed was no longer a freshly made bed, their coffee turned cold, and breakfast was delayed an hour.

When they returned to the kitchen the sun was much higher in the sky. Michael wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and Fiona renewed her acquaintance with an old friend, a short and sleeveless dress that was one of her favorites, something he'd packed for her in her overnight bag.

As they finished the blueberries and granola with yogurt, Fiona shook her head. "You know you're about ready to burst. Tell me, Michael."

He pursed his lips. "You won't like it. No one will like it, but it makes sense."

"Okay . . ."

"First, Larry got himself caught. That arrest at my Mom's was planned. I don't think he knew what Anson told us, or not all of it, and I don't think I read his reaction wrong. So what would he want? To get next to Vaughn. I think Raines and I played right into his hand on that.

"Next, the disagreement is personal with Raines and someone in the FBI. We can't fix that but Raines can. And, there is also someone or more than one someone on the inside who's probably being blackmailed the way we were which means they are in a position to do real harm. Like the harm you saved me from doing, Fi." He paused and continued. "And I think Management's been involved all along."

Fiona's eyes grew dark when Michael explained that.

"If Vaughn was right and they've brought the organization back online, you have to wonder why. And remember Sam saying how complicated the organization's structures were, layers upon layers of information, linking one thing led to another and then on and on? Impractical or impossible for one person to do in a that time span, but if Management and Anson were working together, maybe not. The weapons they sold to the operative they turned in MI5 . . . I think that's the tip of the iceberg. That weapons facility in Tampa was huge."

"It was," Fiona agreed somberly. "I saw it."

"And I did, too, a couple of weeks ago."

"No one's heard from Management in a long time, though," Fi said.

"It doesn't mean he's gone."

"But they stopped looking because . . . he disappeared."

"Think back to what Anson said to us . . . that he and Management were just two guys with a dream. Do you think if you build an organization like that, and have a chance to rebuild, that you'd just walk away? It'll get complicated now that Anson's on the international terror watch list. But Raines needs to add Management, too. And we all need to be very careful. He threatened me, and he threatened you with the same things."

The expression of Fiona's face was marked with worry. Michael took a deep breath and realized he needed to keep all of this conjecture at bay a while longer. For Fiona and himself. They needed to keep this light and pleasant place to be a nurturing alcove of comfort and peace.

"I'm sorry, Fi. You asked. I should have . . . "

"We need this time," she said quietly. "I want it with you."

"And I want it with you, too."

For a few moments they sat next to each other, each lost a bit in thought. Fiona rose and took their bowls and cups to the sink and rinsed them before placing them in the dishwasher.

Michael was looking out the door to the garden area when she finished. She stood behind him and wrapped his waist with her arms.

"So, what shall we do? I don't see a television. Or a book, although there are a couple with my things, books Pearce gave me. One is quite lovely."

"We could play tic-tac-toe," Michael suggested.

She smiled at that.

"Or," he said, turning around in her arms. "We can go back to the bedroom and . . . think of things."

"We could."

#

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#

It was sometime after five that same day when Michael finally looked at his phone, turned it on and endured the slew of voice and text messages. One by one he listened to them or read them before he snapped the phone shut.

Fiona was watching him listen and wince. "We have to leave, don't we?"

"I don't want to."

"But we're coming back here tonight."

He smiled. "We are."

When they left that day, Michael used the remote to engage the wireless sentry system and explained the excruciating ramifications of the system. He'd borrowed it from Jesse and had removed it from the loft to relocate it to the house.

He didn't think any of their enemies could find them quite this soon, but he was not going to take chances.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

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"Where first?" Fiona wanted to know.

Michael left the teacher's Honda with its legitimate, unexpired campus parking sticker next to the health center. They walked across a green hill to find the Charger on the opposite side in a student long-term parking lot, right where he'd left it 24 hours earlier.

He handed her his phone and smiled. "You tell me."

Fi hit the speaker button and listened.

_"Westen. Report in. Get the hotel info from Pearce."_

_"Mikey, not rushing you or anything, but we think we found another one of Anson's weapons storage facilities. Are you and Fi done playing kissy face? Come on back, we got work to do."_

Fiona looked over at Michael. "Kissy face?"

He grinned. "Well, we did."

_"Westen? Report in."_

_"Michael, I know I'm not supposed to call you on this phone, but how much longer am I going to be trapped here with Nate and Charlie and Ruth? Call me!"_

Fi looked at Michael again. "She's fine," Fi said.

"And they're staying that way," he said nearly under his breath.

"And out of your hair," she said, grinning.

"Yes, thank you, Lord."

_"Westen? Report in!"_

_"Mike, Pearce and I are going to put eyes on this new facility. We'll let you know what we find." _

_"Westen, report in now!"_

"Okay," Fi said. "Raines first."

Before they left the house, they discussed implementing stronger levels of personal awareness, discretion, observation and caution in all things. Unspoken was their agreement to function as a ligature. Neither was ready to disconnect from the other, not after their nearly four months of separation.

Michael headed to the loft to check in with the rest of their team and to change clothing into something more professional than his jeans and t-shirt for the meeting with Raines. When they found the loft empty, he called Sam while Fi changed into a different dress.

When Sam didn't pick up, he tried Jesse with the same result, and then Pearce. He frowned and looked at Fi. "Something's wrong."

He punched in Raines' number and when the call went straight to voicemail, he was certain something was very wrong. He'd just closed the phone when it rang. It was Raines. He listened for a few moments. "We'll be there."

He glanced over to Fiona. "Jesse and Pearce are in the hospital. They were ambushed when they went to check out the weapons storage site. Pearce was hurt worse than Jesse."

Fiona shook her head. "Oh, no." And then retrieved the Walther she'd hidden up and under and kitchen counter on a small interior ledge constructed exactly for that purpose. Fortunately it was one of the weapons Michael told her had survived the FBI sweep of the loft. She stashed it in her purse.

While Michael changed, Fi packed more personal items of theirs in another bag to take back to the house later. _Their_ _house._

And in that moment, when she realized what she was doing, she stopped and looked around.

The loft first had been Michael's haven, a place for him to be, to recover, to work, a place to begin figuring out the puzzle of why he'd been burned and who had done that. Then it became the place where he and Sam and she planned jobs together, a place she stayed when she was not in her place, a place where they had fought and the place where she and Michael had made love. When he asked her to come live with him, it had become something more than just a place until Anson arrived, until she broke it apart. And now Michael had restored them to _their _place, where they could start fresh and share their lives.

"Ready?" He grabbed his jacket and the bag she packed and headed to the door.

"Ready," she said, answering a question that had nothing to do with which hospital they would be traveling to.

#

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#

Sam was waiting for them in the lobby. His Hawaiian shirt was rumpled, his slacks bore evidence of coffee stains and his whiskery face was marked with worry.

"Hey, it's the lovebirds," he said wearily. "Looks like we kicked a hornet's nest and got stung."

Fiona leaned over and gave Sam a kiss on his cheek, and was rewarded with a tired smile.

"How are they doing?" Michael asked.

"Jesse's doing a lot better than Dani. For some reason she decided to jump in front of Jesse, and . . . it's wound like the one Jesse gave you, Mike, only Jesse was behind her and he stopped a bullet, too. Thank God we were talking on the phone when it went down or I think they'd both be dead now."

Michael shook his head, his expression distressed. Fiona could already see he was blaming himself.

"You called it in?"

"In a manner of speaking. I called Raines. He used agency muscle to call in troops and medical help. We didn't need cops at that point in time, just help from Homestead . . . you know, the National Guard," Sam said with a small smile. "That short-notice worldwide deployment stuff works pretty fast when you're 30 minutes away instead of a couple of time zones."

"When did this happen?"

"Oh, let's see . . . a couple hours after you took off yesterday to get Fi."

Michael frowned. "If you were going to take a look, why didn't you wait for me?"

"Because _all_ we were going to do was take a look, Mike," Sam said testily. "Jesse figures they tripped some kind of alarm, and when that happened it went to hell in a hand basket. Come on," Sam said, rising, "I'll walk you up so you can say hi and then you'd better see Raines. He's not in what I'd call a good mood."

#

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#

Jesse was up, walking and worrying when Michael and Fiona reached his room. He was wearing stained slacks and a hospital gown that was at least one if not two sizes too small for his torso instead of a shirt, holding a cell phone and grumbling. "Damned hospitals."

Fiona stepped forward, put her hand on his arm that didn't have a bandage and gave him a small hug. "What's the matter?"

"I have to wait for some damned doctor to let me out of here. He was supposed to be here an hour ago. I've got things to do at work, and they won't let me in to see Pearce. Do you know that fool woman turned and put herself between me and . . . me and . . ." He stopped, took a calming breath and looked at the ceiling.

"We heard," Michael said. "They wouldn't let us in to see her, either. There's a nurse blocking the door for some reason right now."

"That can't be good," Jesse muttered as he looked at Michael squarely. "She almost died. I don't understand why she did that."

"I can guess, that's all," Michael said. "Several years ago she was on an op, wanted to slow things down but Langley disagreed, and it went south. She told me her asset died in her arms. He was also her fiancé."

That deflated Jesse's head of steam. He sat down in the chair adjacent to the bed. "But we're not . . . "

"I think," Fiona said, touching his arm, "it's hard to see a friend get hurt, and if you can stop it, you stop it."

Jesse looked down for moment. "I guess you're right. It just make me . . . "

"Feel unworthy when someone does that for you," Michael filled in with a low voice as he met Fiona's gaze.

"It does," Jesse agreed.

#

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#

An hour had passed by the time they reached Raines' hotel. When the elevator doors opened, a tall, athletic man in a dark suit who seemed vaguely familiar to both Michael and Fiona brushed past them. When he saw them, a flash of recognition crossed his features, but he didn't stop on his way out. Fiona turned to watch him leave the hotel.

"I know him from somewhere," she said, trying to remember, as they stepped inside the elevator and pushed the number for Raines' floor. "I can't remember his name."

"He's FBI. He's Raines' counterpart. He's the one who argued to keep you in prison."

"What did I do to him?"

"It wasn't about you. Pearce called it a pissing match. It's personal, something between him and Raines. That didn't matter except when it came to getting you out of prison and it'll matter if it interferes with taking Anson down."

It was a short walk from the elevator to Raines' suite. He opened the door quickly, as if he expected who might have been there before schooling his disagreeable expression.

"Miss Glenanne, good to see you," he said almost pleasantly, before turning to Michael and dramatically changing tone. "Westen, why the hell did you turn off your phone?"

Michael entered the room, turned around to look at him when he closed the door behind them. "Because you told me I had 24 hours of personal time, which I took."

Raines' expression changed from irritated to grim as he walked past them into the stateroom. "You saw Axe?"

Michael nodded. "Yes. He gave us the short version of what happened. Then we saw Jesse. Pearce's room was blocked by a nurse who said we couldn't go in then, so we didn't see her. We understand she's lucky to be alive. So what was in the warehouse?"

"What _wasn't in it _would be more accurate," Raines grumbled, picking up a glass of something amber that didn't seem to fit his by-the-book approach to work. "Guns, RPGs, .50 cals, AKs and all kinds of small arms, munitions, small tanks, armored vehicles. Enough ordnance to blow away south Florida twice. It was bigger than what they found in Tampa. And this will sound familiar: the whole facility was rigged to blow, but the wiring job wasn't complete yet, or so the Homeland folks tell me."

"Anyone captured? Find anything to link it to Anson?" Michael asked.

"No, whoever was there disappeared by the time the National Guard got there, and they got there quick."

"So the problem now . . . ? "

"Oh, hell, they don't want to hear from us or want our people involved though we clearly should be. I'm talking to Homeland tomorrow about the link to Anson's Tampa facility. Of course, everybody and their uncle is involved now, except us. Homeland, the Bureau, even the damned DEA. Whatever they find, they'll let us know about it when they're done with it. Dammit!"

Michael watched Raines pace and shook his head. "Uncovering a huge weapons and ammunition cache makes for headlines, and the FBI doesn't want to share information when it links to a DIA shrink? No inter-agency cooperation, at all?"

"Just Homeland," Raines muttered as he walked away to look out a window. "And I don't care who takes credit, but we need accurate forensics at this stage . . ."

Fiona and Michael exchanged a glance. Something more was happening here.

"Why would the FBI block that?" Fiona asked, clearly confused.

"It's because of me, I'm afraid."

Michael and Fiona turned to see a tall, slender woman approach Raines and gently remove the glass he held from his hand before she clasped his hand with hers. They both recognized her. The intervening years since their last meeting had been as if they had never passed. She was as beautiful now as she had been then.

She set the glass on the desk, slid her hand across Raines' shoulders and approached them, her hand extended to Fiona, then Michael. "It's so good to see you both again. I'm afraid I made a choice 15 years ago, one I have never regretted, but periodically it returns to create problems. Fiona, why don't we give our gentlemen some time to talk business? Would you like some tea? I've just had a fresh pot brought up."

When they left the room, Michael turned and took a seat on one of the two couches that faced each other, a small table between them. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other and watched Raines fidget until he sat down.

When the silence stretched too far, Michael broke it. "She chose you, Raines. That's the problem, isn't it?"

Raines met his gaze. "We have three sons."

"He got off the elevator as we arrived."

"He was here. Unfortunately, I didn't answer the door. It was unpleasant."

Michael addressed the situation. "We still have a problem, because he's got a leak, or several of them . . . or we do. There's no way Anson could have found me in D.C. or located Fi here unless someone on the inside was relaying information."

"I know."

"What would it take for you to add Management's name to the same terror threat bulletin as Anson?"

That question made Raines pause, look up and frown, reassessing. "You think so?"

"Think about it. He disappeared. We stopped looking for him. Do you really believe Anson would be able to do all that he's done, by himself, since Caracas?"

Raines got up and retrieved a report from the desk where his wife had left the drink. He flipped it open, checking the handwritten notes he'd made. Michael recognized it as the report he'd written following prior to Max's death where he presented a case for why he believed they had not completed taking down all the elements of Vaughn's organization, an organization they now knew to be part of Anson's and Management's creation. "We need to break this problem into manageable pieces," Raines said.

"I've been thinking about that," Michael said.

Raines gave a small, dry laugh. "Sure you were."

Michael's reaction was as swift as a struck match bursting into flame. "I'll give you that shot, Raines. But it's the last one. Your wife is off limits. So is Fi."

Raines sobered quickly. "I'm sorry, Westen."

#

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#

Tea had been consumed, and pleasantries had been exchanged by two women who were dressed and behaving as properly and politely as two ladies consuming tea would or should be.

In an alternative setting, both women possessed skills that made them as lethal as the men in their lives; they just masked them differently.

Fiona had learned that Raines and his wife now had three sons who excelled in sports and music, sons whom they were extremely proud.

Their conversation had been measured and cautious, not that Fiona wouldn't trust her; she didn't know her, and caution was appropriate. Raines was Michael's boss, after all.

Fifteen years ago, Fiona's objective had been to make sure Michael was protected on his way out of Germany with his assigned extraction, the woman who now poured the tea. Ultimately, he had been, but it had been more than a year since they had last been together, and he had promised her 12 months previously he wouldn't let that much time pass between then and the next time they could be together. But he had.

He had always frustrated her to the point that it was such a tremendous decision, to either make love to him or commit mayhem upon him. She couldn't help but wonder now if the time for thinking those were her only choices . . . had passed.

"When do you plan to be married?" she asked, bringing Fi back to the present. She had noticed the Claddah ring and understood its meaning on her left hand, with the heart turned in.

"After this ends."

"That may be a long time from now."

"It might be."

"Don't wait. We nearly waited too long. It was a mistake."

Fiona just smiled.

"I mean," she said with a serious expression on her face, reaching to touch Fiona's hand gently, "_don't wait."_

Fi looked at her an could not decipher the message within the message. She had a feeling, though, it was terribly important.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

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"I think she is seriously ill," Fiona said softly, as they watched the elevator doors close in front of them.

That earned her a quizzical look from Michael. "What makes you say that?"

"Her wig."

"What wig?"

"It looks so real, I almost missed it."

He watched Fiona collect her thoughts. "We were talking about nothing, really, other than she was telling me how proud they are of their three sons, and she noticed your ring and asked when we were getting married. I told her after all of this is over and she said 'don't wait.' She said it twice, Michael."

"He mentioned they had three sons, too."

"Athletes and musicians. And then I noticed it, just a tiny thing anyone could have missed, because it must be a very expensive wig, but she moved it slightly. You know, if she's that ill, it could account for Raines uneven temper."

Michael looked down at Fiona and clasped her hand in his as the elevator door opened. "It could."

#

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#

"I think we need less conspicuous vehicles," Fiona said as they moved items from the Charger into her Hyundai.

"Not sure we can do much about the Charger except store it, but we could paint over the neon blue. Make it gray or white," Michael suggested then looked up to see the expression he expected to see on her face and hid a smile.

"But . . . I really like this . . . color."

"We'll park it in the garage; it'll be fine."

After visiting Raines and his wife, they'd returned to the loft to switch vehicles. Michael was certain the Charger would not fit into the small garage, so they decided to swap it for Fi's car which would fit.

The trip back to the loft also allowed Fi a chance to collect some more items that she wanted to use at their new house. She'd just finished loading the last of the items in the trunk when Sam pulled up and got out of his Cadillac. He had a fresh six pack in his hand.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

"Going home," Michael said.

"This isn't home?"

"It's a work place now, Sam."

Sam glanced at Fiona and Michael. "I can understand that. Where are you staying?" He watched as they exchanged a glance. "I get it. See you back here in the morning? Mind if I stay then?"

"Go for it, Sam. And thanks."

#

#

#

He had been watching Dani Pearce sleep. It was disconcerting, knowing this woman who he had worked two ops with, and had an entirely professional working relationship with, had, without a thought, placed herself in front of him, between him and the guy with the .45 whose only objective was to kill them.

He'd nearly succeeded, too. If he hadn't been talking to Sam at the time about what they were seeing he's not sure either of them would be here. At least Jesse was satisfied he'd been able to get the drop on him before the shooter got his second shot off.

The building they were investigating looked like an abandoned distribution center for a trucking company with a span of loading docks, one after the other, on the other side of a weed-choked parking lot. Pearce looked up and pointed out the antennas on the roof. Jesse, crouched behind her, indicated they should move closer for a better view when out of nowhere, a camo-clad gunman popped in front of them. He was strapped with an ammo belt and black rifle, and was aiming his .45 at them.

Pearce read the seriousness of the situation instantaneously, and in a heartbeat, she thrust herself in front of him, shouting "no!" Jesse had been reaching behind his back for his gun when they both dropped. The bullet had torn through her upper chest, breaking her clavicle before chipping her scapula, passing through and lodging in his chest, missing his esophagus.

The bullet would have traveled farther than the superficial level where it stopped, but it met resistance in the form of the St. Christopher's medal he wore. It was not the first time in his life he had thanked his mother for the medal and the protection it provided.

The doctor who patched him up was amazed; for Jesse's part he was thankful he didn't have to endure surgery, unlike Pearce.

Apparently earlier in the day, she'd had some kind of medical emergency, but whatever had caused that apparently was not serious enough to send her to intensive care. Jesse was thinking that was a good sign.

After he'd been discharged earlier, he'd gone back to his townhouse, showered and changed and had checked in at his job for several hours. Without any fires to put out there, he'd returned to the hospital to see Raines and his wife as they were leaving Pearce's room.

Perhaps it was the greenish hue fluorescent lighting cast over everything in the hospital, or perhaps it was something else, but Raines' wife did not look well, he thought. Raines was all business, though, and arranged a time for his debrief over the shooting incident. He'd be meeting him in the morning at his office.

Jesse wondered about Pearce's family, to which Raines informed him that her only relative, her mother, was a cultural attaché who had been informed of her daughter's condition but was unable to leave her post to return to the U.S. to see her.

"Really?" Jesse asked.

Raines just shook his head. "Really."

"Then I'll be staying, unless there's an objection. I don't know her that well, but she did, ah, save my life. "

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it," Raines said.

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Porter," his wife said softly.

So when his phone vibrated and Mike called asking about an update on his and Pearce's status, Jesse was primed.

"Can you imagine? It's your only child, she nearly died and the woman is too busy to leave her diplomatic job to come see her kid. Okay, her adult kid, but still."

"Hey, Jess," Mike suggested gently, "sounds like you might be taking this too personally."

"Hell, yeah," Jesse said before he took a deep breath and repeated himself with a defeated tone, "hell, yeah."

"So you're staying the night? Is that what you're doing?"

"Seems like the right thing to do, Mike. I need to see Raines in the morning. Do you suppose you or Fi could stay with her then? I hate to leave her here by herself, know what I mean?"

He could hear Mike talking with Fi. "She'll be there," Mike said.

"See you tomorrow."

#

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#

By the time they got back to the house and moved a few more of their personal belongings into the kitchen and bath and bedroom, Fiona was feeling more settled, more at home. Sheltered. Safe.

Michael opened a bottle of wine and poured each of them small glasses. They went outside to share the night air and the wicker loveseat on the porch. He raised his glass to her. "To our new place."

"I love the loft, but I love the privacy we have here. Let's promise to have no harsh words here, Michael."

He tipped his glass to hers. "I don't want that, either."

Michael stretched out his legs and rested them on the wicker coffee table. Fiona slid her legs on top of Michael's as they sat in silence and listened to the wind through the trees and the occasional night bird chirrup. He stroked the soft skin on her legs absently, as she rested her head on the back of the seat.

After a few moments, she looked over to him. "I know I have seen that man somewhere."

"Raines' nemesis?"

"Is that what he is?" She was frowning, trying to stretch to reach for an old memory.

"He must be. If it was a choice between him and Raines and she married Raines, maybe he's been holding a grudge all this time."

"That's not rational."

"Fi," he said quietly and seriously, "when it comes to our hearts, we often are not rational. I'm pretty sure I'm recent proof of that."

She moved her legs and curled next to him. "I'm not either."

"What you did was logical," he said, looking down at their joined hands. "What I did . . . wasn't. I'm sorry."

Fiona set her glass down to slide her palm against his cheek and gently turned his face toward hers. "If our positions were reversed it wouldn't have been different. I know that." She sighed deeply. "Are you done apologizing now? It's unnerving."

He laughed. "If you want me to be done, I'm done."

"Yes," she said. "You're done."

A few minutes of comfortable silence passed, during which she could not stop rearranging information. "I wonder what happened between the three of them? It had to be something dramatic, since it's still affecting their lives."

"It's none of our business, Fi."

"I know that, Michael. I just can't help . . ."

"It's personal for them. Leave it that way."

He yawned and reached for her empty glass, took it then held a hand out to her which she took as he pulled her up from the love seat.

Inside, he slipped the wine glasses into the dishwasher, turned the lights off, locked the door and engaged the alarm. They were on their way down the hall to their bedroom when Fiona mumbled softly. "I know I know him somehow. From someplace else."

He stopped at the end of the bed to put his arms around her and pull her close. "Does this mean I won't be able to distract you tonight?"

#

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Fiona heard the sound of rain on the tiled roof, and fought against the chill of an old, unsettling dream, a dream that was more memory and experience than not, something she had buried a long time ago.

She shivered and inched closer to Michael who, when he slept, was the equivalent of her own personal furnace. His body temperature elevated while it seemed hers went the opposite direction. In sleep, he tightened his arm around her and drew her against him. Secure and safe now, she drifted away again, unable to stop her return to the theatre in her mind.

Her companions were out on the water, waiting for her signal.

She had gone to the docks to collect the arms shipment she'd purchased earlier in the day when she paused at the sound of angry voices.

A few feet ahead, a vividly roiling argument was being conducted in English and Italian and German. She could understand about half of it. When the Libyans arrived and the language changed, she lost the ability to understand the words, but she could clearly hear the disagreement escalate.

She started backing away from the scene with the intention of returning to base to collect her fluthered back-up, if he'd sobered up enough in the last hour to be helpful.

It seemed there were two different arguments in progress, and without knowing what else was going on, or even if the erupting gunfire could have been predicted, the solid male body she'd encountered on the dock when she ducked for cover behind a crate was a startling surprise. She had no awareness of his presence.

Before she could move, he wrapped one iron-clad arm around her shoulders and clamped his hand over her mouth, imprisoning her and her rifle sling, before lifting her off her feet and dragging her backward, to a kneeling position next to him behind another crate. He did not release his hold, but hissed in her ear. "Be quiet or be dead."

Within seconds the entire dock shook as it was lit with an incendiary device. Another explosion rumbled, her eardrums ached, and the thick, acrid smoke blanketed the scene and clogged lungs.

The late-coming Libyans who had argued so vehemently, were running toward them, as unaware as she had been of the SEAL team she now could see was monitoring the scene.

The soldier holding her tightly released her, and she turned to look back at him. His face was blackened, but his smile was wickedly white and his voice was familiar. "Be good now and don't get dead. Westen won't like that."

Sam Axe.

And then she saw what happened next.

One of the Libyans turned and killed the other; it was not an accident. The pistol he used had a silencer. She watched, frozen, as he turned back and found the others who had been there first and shot them, one at a time. Then he left.

It didn't make sense. Nothing about it made sense, not the SEAL team, not the murders. She found herself being drug away from the scene by Axe. She turned and attempted to free herself from him and delivered a vicious upward punch to his nose. His head snapped back, and he tightened his grip on her, as he continued to drag her away from the scene.

A second SEAL, his face also smudged so dark only the whites of his eyes were clear, approached. "Come on. We got to go."

Axe put her down. "Damn, woman. You need a new profession before you get dead. Get the hell out of here now." He shook her shoulders and wiped the blood coursing from his nose. "Now!"

He shoved her away as Fiona heard gunfire erupt and wisely took his advice and left the dock.

"Fi, Fi . . . it's just a dream. Sssssh, sssssh. It's just a dream."

Michael gently held her thrashing limbs still. "Fiona, please."

She sat up quickly and inhaled sharply as she felt her heart pound and her shuddering chest heave. She couldn't get enough air.

He brushed her hair away from her face, and pulled her back against his chest, running his hands up and down her arms. "It's just a dream. Just a dream."

When her breathing returned to almost normal, he lay down again, pulling her with him so they shared the same pillow.

"It's not a dream. I know who he is, Michael," she said, coldly serious. "I saw him murder a whole bunch of people in Libya. Sam saw it, too. He might be FBI now but he wasn't thirteen years ago. We need to talk to Sam."

"At 4:45 in the morning?"

"Michael, we need to talk to Sam."

They left the house ten minutes later, and got to the loft 20 minutes after that to find the gate open, Sam's car gone, the loft ablaze with light and the door at the top of the steps wide open.

Upstairs, the small television that sat on the workbench was still tuned to an ESPN channel, the beer carton Sam had with him was sitting on the counter, and one of the bottles was shattered on the floor. Sam's phone lay in a puddle of beer.

Fi picked up his phone and found a paper towel to wipe it off while Michael called Raines. "We have a problem, and we need help."

He looked over at Fiona.

"This is not good."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

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"Thanks for coming, Fi. She hasn't been awake yet today," Jesse said as he rose from the chair he'd occupied all night in Pearce's room at the hospital.

Fiona put her bag down on a small table and asked Jesse how he was feeling.

His bandage was hidden under his shirt, but he touched it tenderly and stretched his shoulders. "I'm okay. I still don't understand . . ."

Fiona put her hand on his arm. "I don't think she could deal with seeing another man die in front of her the way her fiancé did."

"She saved my life."

Fiona smiled. "I'm happy she did. So, you're seeing Raines first, then work, then what?"

"I'll be back later this afternoon or this evening. You know her mother isn't . . . " he exhaled deeply, disgust evident.

"Jesse . . ." Fi started, to have him interrupt.

"Yeah, Mike said I was making this too personal. I hate it when he's right."

"I know what you mean," she said with a small smile, "and thanks for being _his _friend. He told me what you did."

He started to leave, then turned around. "I'm glad you're out, Fi. You guys are good for each other. You ought to make that permanent. Just saying."

"See you later, Jess. Be careful."

"Speaking of safety, are you . . . ?"

"It's in my purse."

"Good. Can't be too careful."

#

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Sam's whereabouts had been Michael's priority ever since they discovered him missing at the loft.

All the signs existed that foul play was involved, with the curious aspect that the kind of violence associated with an abduction seemed to be missing from the equation except for the broken beer bottle. Beer bottles, often useful as clubs, weren't known for breaking easily. So what happened?

It almost looked like token resistance. Almost.

All of Sam's usual haunts had been inspected and rechecked. They bore no evidence he was anywhere in Miami. Whoever had him wanted him for a reason, leverage probably, and that process involved waiting until the unknown abductor revealed what they wanted. It worried Michael, and Fiona hadn't been handling it well at all, not since her dream-startled memory when they'd found Sam missing.

Michael was almost relieved when it was time to take her to the hospital to sit with Pearce because Fi demonstrated worry in an extremely agitated manner which she had been fairly successful in transferring to him, and it was fuzzing his thinking. Or maybe that was Fi herself who was fuzzing his thinking.

He was remembering now how long it had taken after his burn notice locked him into Miami before Sam and Fi developed a working tolerance for each other. Their first meeting, he remembered, began with Fi pitching a beer bottle at him. The same incident that had awoken her from her troubling dream this morning was the same incident that impelled her to lob a beer bottle at Sam's head more than five years ago.

Now that was interesting, he'd told her. He was still at the loft when Raines called to ask if it was a secure meeting place.

"Wouldn't count on it today," Michael said. "The whole place needs to be cleaned."

"We need something secure. I need something away . . ."

"Jesse's office," Michael informed him.

"Good. I'll call him and meet you there in an hour."

#

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For those employed to direct the security office for an elite private enterprise security corporation, on-the-job perks included high tech systems not found in many secure government offices. Jesse's daily work world was exactly the safe environment Raines needed.

Michael could see him looking around, evaluating. "Thinking of leaving government work?" he asked.

Raines shrugged. "Eliminate the red tape, the political back-stabbing . . ."

"Red tape's gone, but the back-stabbing is still in place," Jesse said. "Want to tell me what's going on that you need to meet here, Raines?"

"I have a problem."

"Just one?" Michael asked. "Seems like there's a list, but I'm thinking it starts with you and your FBI buddy and whatever happened 15 years ago with your wife. By the way, how is she? Fi tells me she's not well. I'm not the only CIA employee with personal problems, am I, Raines?"

"No. You're not."

"You can't afford to hide this any longer."

"That's why I wanted to meet elsewhere."

Jesse had seen Mike on offense before, but his new, more aggressive tone came as a surprise. He gauged Raines' discomfort level and waited. Raines looked as if he'd expected Mike's questions.

"Twenty years ago," Raines said, "we were a two-man team for a couple of years, but he wanted a corner office and left field work. A couple of years later, one of my assignments was to relocate a deep cover operative from Vanino to Tokyo and then accompany her to Langley. It got complicated, Westen, like your first IRA assignment got complicated."

Michael crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Raines walked over to a window and looked out; the Atlantic was crystal blue today instead of murky gray. "She wanted out, but the agency talked her into taking that assignment in Germany, and she was eager to get away from me. From us. Until we got back to Langley, I honestly didn't know she'd been involved with him or that they'd made plans to marry. I hadn't seen him in two or three years, but he didn't take her news that she'd changed her mind well. She walked in while we were . . . disagreeing. After that, she didn't want anything to do with either of us."

"That's why you sent me . . . "

"Yes. I didn't know it then, but she was pregnant with our oldest when you and Glenanne got her out."

"When did he move over to the FBI?"

Employees swapping agencies wasn't that common, but it also wasn't that difficult. The starting place was the employee's security clearance level and the level of inter-agency contact.

"Not then, later. I got out of field ops, and he got back into them and landed in Libya for a couple of years. In '97 he worked with the FBI and ATF on that big gun bust of Libyan arms imported here that were transferred to the UK before ending back in the hands of IRA. He stayed there a couple more years, and when he came back he made the move to the FBI, and got the corner office he wanted. But he's never forgotten what happened between us, and goes out of his way to be difficult whatever opportunity presents itself."

"Grudges held that long aren't healthy, personally or professionally," Jess commented.

Raines acknowledged Jesse's observation before he faced Michael squarely. "My wife has breast cancer. She's recovering from chemo and radiation. She's stronger now and we're hoping it worked, but we're also looking for another opinion. She's seeing an oncologist here in Miami later today."

"Where are your sons?"

"Still in London with the grandparents. We were all there until Pearce called."

"Do they have adequate protection?" Michael wondered.

"Yes."

"Raines, I hope your wife gets better," Michael said.

Jesse agreed. "Yeah, I hope she gets better, too."

"Thanks."

"But we still have a really big problem here." Michael waited a moment. "I think there's a lot more this. A couple of years after that big FBI/ATF bust, one night your friend was on a dock in Tripoli. An asset overheard an argument in English, German and Italian, not coincidentally from countries that were the number 1, 3 and 4 of suppliers of Libyan arms at the time. Then your friend arrived, he was dressed like a native. He came with another Libyan or someone who looked like a Libyan. They got into an argument but something on the dock exploded and they scattered, except he took out the Libyan he was with a silenced weapon, and then he went back and took the rest. He killed at least four people, maybe more.

"Whatever was in the shipment on the dock was destroyed. A second shipment was loaded on a ship later, but a SEAL team destroyed it. That left another shipment clear for transport after the SEALs left. It had been hidden in a different location in the same area. If you remember, at the time we were buying everything we could get our hands on from Libya to destroy it. Shoulder fired anti-aircraft missiles, nuclear and bio weapon components. I had a couple of ops where that was the objective."

Raines frowned, remembering "We lost an operative in Tripoli about that same time . . ."

"Can you get reports from that incident? Because right now, I wouldn't call your old partner a patriot."

"Careful, Westen. Hinting at something like that is dangerous. And how in the hell can you possibly know any of this?"

"I'm open to hearing a different explanation, Raines, after we see the reports that were filed, if they were filed. Could be the third shipment the SEALS missed is something that might be in that facility where Pearce and Jesse were shot. The T4 Anson linked to the Consulate bombing was stolen in the late 90s. Somewhere there's that IICD list of arms decommissioned seven years ago. What if stuff in that warehouse matches the list?"

Raines was slowly pacing as Michael and Jesse watched him. "Where'd you come up with this harebrained idea? "

"I didn't come up with anything. I was in Nigeria at the time. But Fiona was there. On that dock. She saw it happen. Sam was there too, and when we get him back, he might be able to define that mission. Another one of the people who watched the whole thing happen was on a boat offshore, Fi's brother. That's how we know about the third shipment. Fiona watched it happen. She and Sam had an unfriendly run-in that night."

"You're suggesting . . ."

"I didn't see it. Fi did, so did Sam. Her brother watched it happen from a boat."

"Damned IRA gun runners . . . "

"Yeah. Those gun runners. But I wouldn't damn them. When your old buddy got out of the elevator yesterday just before we came up to see you, Fi said looked familiar to her, but it wasn't until this morning when she realized where and when she had seen him before. So, here's a question: What if those arms were part of what Anson and Management have been stockpiling for years? Or how about this: What if he's working with Anson or he's being blackmailed by him? What if he has Sam?"

Raines shook his head with disgust. "That's a lot of conjecture without a substantial leg to stand on."

"Maybe," Michael said. "Or maybe not."

When Jesse's phone rang, he answered. "Yeah? Yeah! Sam? Sam! Where the hell are you? Orlando?"

Raines interrupted. "Can I talk to him? Axe, where are you in relation to the Naval Air Warfare Center? Let me make a couple of calls; we can get you escorted home from there. Really? Well, that's too bad. What's the plate? No, I don't believe that, either. See you later today."

Jesse used both pointer fingers to direct him to his glassed in conference room. "Secure lines in there."

"Thanks.

Jesse turned to Mike at that point. "What in the hell is going on, Westen?"

"You heard it."

"That's one of the craziest . . ."

"Is it really that incomprehensible? Given everything else we know about Anson?"

Jesse glanced over to him and thought about it for a few moments. "No. It's not. But Raines is right. It's dangerous to make that kind of accusation."

"I'm not accusing anyone; we're following an arms link to terrorists."

Raines rejoined them in Jesse's office. "There's a BOLO on Sam's car, a couple of Navy MPs are bringing him back tonight. By the way, I've made a request for some additional support. Nick Carnahan and Ryan Peterbaugh will be here by the end of the week, Westen. And before you make plans for them, I want to talk to them about Lang."

#

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Michael followed Jesse to the hospital.

Jesse was going back to spend the evening in Pearce's room. When they got there, Fi was flipping channels on a muted TV set. When she offered to come back later, he declined.

"Raines said he and his wife would be out later. I'll go down to the cafeteria and grab a bite then. But can you come back tomorrow. I want to hear what Sam has . . .unless you do? "

"I'll be fine, Jesse. See you in the morning."

When she and Michael were the only two passengers in the elevator down, Fiona quizzed him about Sam. "So two guys came in, put him in the trunk of his car and drove to Orlando, then left the car parked long enough for Sam to escape. That doesn't sound right."

"No, it doesn't, but until Sam's back . . ."

"I'm glad he's safe though."

Fi's car had been parked in the sun most of the day, and she'd been in an over air conditioned hospital room When she opened the door, it felt like a ball of heat rushed out at her. They climbed in and she started the engine and was waiting for the air conditioning to chill down.

Michael looked over at her from the passenger seat. "It's only 3:30, Fi. We've got time . . . to get married . . . today."

She turned and looked at him, her expression sliding between amused, confused and distrusting. "What are you talking about?"

He sighed. "I knew you were going to be difficult about this."

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "You got that from my question?"

"No, I mean, yes. We can, you know . . . "

"Of course we can," she said slowly, tamping down the urge to laugh. She wasn't sure what kind of response he was expecting.

"We need to, I mean we should do it today . . . because I signed us up three days ago. We have to use the license today or we have to sign up again and wait three more days or I have to take a class. You do it online."

"You have to take a class? Online? To get married?" she laughed out loud.

"Only if you're the guy, but not if you wait three days."

She laughed again. "What happened to 'we need a priest'?"

"Well, we do, but we could have our marriage blessed later . . . and we could get married today. Now. Just us. What do you say?"

"Michael, what's going on?" she asked as her amusement slipped away. His voice had been slow and halting in places. She was confused.

He turned to face her across the console and reached for her hand. "I don't know, Fi. At first I did it just . . . because I could, you know? I looked it up and . . . I wasn't sure when you were getting out, but I knew it would be soon. Then when I gave you the ring, I knew I should have done that differently, too. I should done that a long, long time ago, probably right after I got it. When Raines told us about his wife this morning, I needed to . . . make us . . . us. I'm sorry, Fi. I'm not very good at this kind of thing. I should have practiced or something. I love you. I want us to be married. I don't want to wait."

She dropped his hand and got out of the car then walked to the passenger side and opened the door and held it. "You'd better get out."

It was Michael's turn to look confused.

"Get out, Michael. You know I can't drive in this condition, you're going to have to."

He stepped out of the car and surrounded her with his arms and pulled her close. He felt her body trembling and understood. "I'm sorry, Fi. I really should have done this a long time ago."

He released her and closed the door behind her before walking back to the drivers side of the car. After he got in he looked over at her and said, "you know for a minute when you said 'this condition,' I thought you might have meant something else. We haven't been . . . "

Her gentle smile slid down. "No, we haven't. Is that a prob-"

He leaned over to kiss her softly and smiled. "No."

"Good. So find us some place to get you a ring, too."

So they did. And then they did. By the time they got back to their house the question of the evening became . . . should they leave their phones on or not.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

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There was no champagne, no cake, no flowers, no dress, no something old or something blue or borrowed or new or a formal announcement. There was no informal sharing good news between friends, no invitations. Unlike other couples around them, Fiona's wedding garment was a simple khaki sleeveless dress. Michael wore jeans and a blue Polo shirt.

Theirs were quietly spoken vows in the Miami-Dade County Clerk's marriage license office. A deputy clerk read the words for them to follow; another clerk witnessed. They looked into each other's eyes and spoke quietly. There was a moment when Fi slid the simple gold band over Michael's finger, and another when he removed the Claddah ring to slide it over her finger again.

There was a single, unbearably sweet kiss. They left the office holding hands, ignoring those around them who were celebrating loudly amid friends and relatives.

From the outside looking in, their official legal beginning as partners was imperfect, flawed perhaps by the lack of things usually associated with wedding. And yet, from the inside looking out, it was serenely satisfying, very much like their first meeting had been, very much like the first time they had made love: joyful. Their wedding was a celebration of spirits bound for the length of their lives, the last bit of glue securing halves as a whole.

They had gone home and were wrapped in one another when Fiona paused to place her hands on either side of his face. "I still want that priest, Michael. Do you?"

"I do," he whispered back. "But I am happy we did this. Very happy."

"So am I."

#

#

#

The young knew their place, Sam thought, as he returned their smart salutes.

They were both all of maybe 25 years old, but they were good men and they'd taken their jobs to escort him safely back to CIA headquarters in Miami very seriously. It'd been years since that kind of respect had been returned to him, he realized. But then, he'd had no one to blame for his circumstances but himself.

Still, there was a part of himself he hid from others, that part that wanted the respect returned. It was one of the things he valued in his friendships with Mike and Fi and Jesse, where his imperfections didn't matter as much as they did in the spit and polish world.

He was proud of his service record; not every part of his personal history was something he regretted, just that at the end, and he'd never get a do-over for that.

Yes, he could tell the Navy MPs were impressed by his CIA connection as they waited for the agents who would escort him into the building.

He wasn't surprised to find Raines waiting. However, he was surprised to see his wife. It only took Sam took one look to understand her presence as well as the significance of hollow cheekbones accentuated by the turban scarf tied around and fully covering her head. He went straight to her with a warm greeting.

"It's so good to see you, but I'm a little funky," he explained, gently holding her shoulders while staying at arm's length.

She ignored that and gave him a generous hug, her soft cheek against his whiskered face, allowing him to feel how thin she'd grown fighting for life. "What's a little funk between friends, Sam? I think I was covered in mud the last time you fished me out of a problem."

"That you were. Who's fishing you out of this one?" he asked seriously.

"God and hopefully, the oncologist I've just seen here. If all of this business hadn't come up . . . well, let's say Michael and Fiona's problem has become my blessing."

"Prognosis is good?" Sam asked.

"It's a lot better today than it was yesterday," she said with a cocky smile and a wink he remembered.

"Speaking of yesterday," Raines interrupted. "What the hell happened, Axe?"

It only took her soft hand on his to change his focus. "Let the man get a shower and get something to eat if he needs it. You can wait that long, and Michael and Fiona will be here by then."

Raines smiled crookedly. "My better half to the rescue again. Westen brought a bag of your stuff by last night, so why don't you do that and we'll be waiting here?"

Sam gave Raines' wife a two-fingered salute and spotted a familiar duffle. "Thanks."

"I'll see you later, Sam," she said. "I'm going to go sit with Dani at the hospital so Jesse can join you."

#

#

#

"Come on, Mikey."

Fi pulled the sheet off him, and would have been tempted to join him in the bed again, but they had things to do at o'dawn thirty.

After she left to take a shower, he'd sprawled on his stomach and managed to occupy the entire bed. He opened one eye and looked up.

"Mikey, Fi?" he grumped. She knew the name annoyed him; the only person allowed to use it was Sam.

"How else am I going to get you out of bed? You're too big to move, so I have to irritate you."

His smile was sleepy, but not that sleepy. He rolled to his side and raised up on an elbow. "We have time."

"No, we don't. Come on. Raines and Sam are waiting."

"They can wait." He tugged her hand and pulled her back into the bed. "I can't."

"Michael . . . mmm no . . . you're . . . scratchy . . . oh . . . I just . . . took a . . . a shower . . ."

"You can . . . take . . . another . . . with . . . me . . . later . . . "

"We'll never . . . get . . . there . . . then."

#

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#

It was barely light outside when she arrived at the hospital to relieve Jesse so he could go home and get ready for his meeting.

"They tell me she's just sleeping, but she hasn't been awake while I've been here."

She studied his face for a moment. "Did _you_ sleep?"

"Sorta."

"That chair doesn't look very comfortable."

"I'm fine. Thanks for coming. Are you going to be okay?"

She was aware of the question behind his question.

"This looks worse than it is," she explained, drawing her hand down in a circular motion in front of her. She hadn't put the damned wig on this morning, just the scarf. She was looking forward to more of her hair growing out because their sons had given her the perfect earrings for the crew cut style she hoped would appear.

She also noticed he'd been watching the monitors for Dani's heart and respiration rates while he'd been talking to her.

When a nurse entered the room and retrieved the clipboard at the end of her bed, she scowled at him. "I can't tell you anything more than I have already told you, Mr. Porter."

"Yeah, yeah."

She pushed his arm gently. "Go. She'll be fine."

Opening her bag, she removed a fleecy jacket and slipped into it before curling up in the chair next to Dani's hospital bed. She'd been there at Janssen's funeral, and had witnessed her intense grief over losing him. The intervening years had passed without Dani once indicating an interest in another man, any man.

Which was why her act to save this man's life was so very interesting.

Apparently theirs was only a working relationship, so did Dani's brief, unselfish act to save his life have a deeper meaning than what Fiona and Michael told her they assumed?

As for men, Janssen Tunberg and Jesse Porter could not have been more different in personality, temperament or demeanor. They only thing they had in common was that they were both tall, muscular, physically fit men.

Janssen, with that shock of white blond hair and sapphire blue eyes had been a lively flirt, a man who complimented women for just being women. She assumed he had been smitten with Dani because she'd rejected him for so long. And she had wondered if their marriage would have held together for the long term. A man who loved women as much as Janssen had, who flirted as much as he did, who always had an eye for the newest woman who appeared in the room . . . didn't fit the solid role the husband of a CIA case officer needed to be.

When Dani began slowly moving her arms and legs in the bed, she rose to stand next to her. She reached for her hand which seemed very cold to the touch, and mentally tried to infuse her warmth into her hand.

Dani opened her eyes and blinked and focused. She realized who was holding her hand and the faintest of smiles flittered across her face. Her voice was scratchy and weak. "Is Jesse okay?"

"Yes, he's fine. How are you feeling? She reached for the call button to alert a nurse that Dani was awake.

"Alive, I think." Her faint smile reappeared.

Oh, yes, Jesse's reaction to an awake and alert Kimberly Danielle Pearce would be as interesting as her reaction to him. She hoped she'd be there to see that.

#

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"Damnedest thing. Went to the loft to see Mike and Fi but they were loading stuff in her car getting ready to leave for their new place. Asked Mike if I could stay and he said 'go for it.' I get up there, open a beer and before I can lock the door, in walk these two guys. Short guys, big guns, speaking Spanish, one of them might have been on drugs. Am I going to argue? Not right then. Had my phone on the counter, ready to punch in Mike's speed dial and littlest one of them sees that, waves his gun, breaks my beer and I drop the phone.

"I can follow the Spanish but not when they're talking that fast. They search me, get my keys and they're all excited. I think they were after Mike because I kept hearing 'Wesen, Wesen'. And the next thing, I'm in the trunk and looking for the glow in the dark trunk release."

"Why didn't you get out sooner? They didn't stop until Orlando. That's a long ride."

"Curious, that's all. Miserable ride, too, but I wondered where they were supposed to take me or you. And who was waiting at the other end? When they stopped, they abandoned the car. I got out of the trunk, tried to hot wire it but it wouldn't start. Someone had to be, waiting for 'em, but I didn't hear another vehicle."

"Sam," Michael said shaking his head. "You could've been . . ."

"You would have done the same thing, Mikey. These guys were petty criminals, nothing more. I probably could have taken them both in the loft, but with all the dead ends we've hit, I thought we'd get a lead to something."

"Something's off," Jesse muttered.

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

"You ought to hear Westen's theory," Raines said.

Michael looked at Sam. "Not a theory. Just things that don't make sense and make me wonder how or if they're linked. It starts with wondering how Anson found me in D.C. and found Fi here. Indicates a leak. Ours or the FBI's. Raines' buddy over there, was on the same dock in Tripoli where you and Fi were 13 years ago. Makes me curious why."

Sam's attention snapped over to Fiona, then Raines. "I think that's still classified."

Fiona crossed her arms and looked at Sam. "That's for you, that's not me. I was there and I know what I saw, Sam. You saw the same thing."

"Well, I can't talk about it," Sam muttered.

"But I can," Fi added.

"Two things, then," Michael said as he turned to Raines. "Did you find out if that SEAL mission is still classified, or find the name of the agent who killed there?"

"Not yet," Raines said, "but maybe later today."

Michael stood. "We've got a lot of work to do."

"Did you get an ID yet on the who shot Pearce?" Jesse wanted to know.

"Nothing back yet," Raines confirmed.

"We still have the rest of Pearce's OMB reports to comb through," Michael said.

"Yeah, and we need the inventory on the facility by Homestead so we can see if they match anything from what that compromised MI5 operative was selling and what was left in the rubble after Fi and I visited his other site," Sam said.

Raines shook his head. "We're scattered. I want to start with what Nick Carnahan and Ryan Peterbaugh know about Lang when they get here."

"What we really need is to see the big picture," Jesse said. "Raines, what did Homeland say about us getting at least getting reports on the weapons facility by Homestead?"

"Nothing, but we're meeting again today," he filled in. "For some reason the DEA thinks they need to be involved, too, but I haven't gotten to why yet. I will."

"And I'm really curious as to why the FBI had 4 agents camping out in the loft," Sam said. Mike and I found out who they were looking for, but it's still not making sense."

"I say," Jesse volunteered, "we go back to working out of the loft, and start by spring cleaning."

"Excellent idea," Michael agreed. He turned and looked at Raines. "But I think I have better one."

Raines smirked. "Give you a higher clearance level and it goes to your head."

"This isn't my ego talking. We need to invite someone else into this." Michael stared at Raines before he shifted uncomfortably. Sam leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle.

Raines shook his head no. "It won't happen. He can't tolerate . . . me."

"What if Anson is blackmailing him? If he's being pressured, I can help him. I'll talk to him. Not you. We all have a shared background into this. We need to hang together . . ."

Michael waited to see if Raines would understand what he was reaching for.

". . . so we don't hang separately," Raines filled in.

Sam, Jesse and Fiona sat quietly watching their exchange. Jesse was skeptical.

"The point in time that this went south . . ." Michael started.

Raines held up his hand. "No. That wasn't it."

"Wasn't it? Anson plays on weakness, emotions. He predicts how we react based on observation and psych profiles, then uses it against us. It's suffocating. I can breathe again, thanks to Fiona. Don't you want to?"

"Anson isn't dealing with me, and you can't tell me . . . "

"That your former partner is being played by Anson? Throwing up roadblocks? All the signs are there, Raines. Anson knew he couldn't turn you, so he went after him. Your former disgruntled, hurting partner."

"Raines," Sam interjected, "Think about it."

"Oh, hell, Westen."

#

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#

He didn't call ahead, but he did change into a business suit, standard armor among intelligence workers. His CIA clearance got him up and in his waiting room without a hiccup. When his door opened and he stepped out, Michael stopped explaining his situation to his secretary and smiled, then reached to shake his hand. "Can we talk?"

"Talk?"

Michael just smiled.

As a response, he turned, told his secretary he would be out of reach for 30 minutes. Michael followed him out and into an elevator.

"After I saw you and your girlfriend the other day, I wondered if you'd contact me," he said after the doors closed and depressed the B floor.

"Wife."

"All right. After I saw you and your wife. What do you want, Westen?"

Michael smiled politely.

The elevator stopped, the doors opened. On the opposite side of the door was a large, glassed in room. He opened the door with a key, flipped on the lights, hit a switch that provided a white noise ventilation hum and pulled out a chair next to a table.

Michael ignored that. "I want to know what Anson Fullerton wants from you."

He didn't respond immediately. Michael could see him weighing the ramifications. He hoped he wanted help.

"How long have you known?"

"Just figured it out. It was the only thing that made sense. It puts everything together."

He shook his head and looked down at the floor. Michael recognized the defeated posture. "I wasn't worried about you. I figured you'd handle yourself; I was worried about her. But, I heard she sent him away in an ambulance." He smiled at that.

"Yeah, you shouldn't mess with Fiona."

"Wife since when?"

"Not important."

"I'm guessing this goes back to a dock in Tripoli," Michael offered.

His eyes narrowed. "How in the hell do you know that?"

"I wasn't there. But Fiona and Sam Axe were."

"No way in hell."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

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"Yeah. They were there."

Michael assessed Raines' former partner. His face, his body language was a study in stress, a blade-edge stress Michael could easily identify.

Earlier in their careers, they'd had brief contact several times. The last time their operations intersected was '98 in Albania when Michael delivered falsified documents to him, documents he would need to get through customs and police checkpoints at the time he left the country.

Michael was aware he'd left the CIA for the FBI some time after that, but until he and Fiona saw him at the hotel, he'd not known of his connection to Raines or Raines' wife.

Pulling out the other chair, Michael sat across from him. "You know Fiona's history since you tried so hard to keep her imprisoned. She was in Tripoli to facilitate a weapons transfer to a ship waiting offshore. When she arrived, she heard an argument. She picked up a couple of words, but not the gist of the argument. You arrived with another man. A Libyan? And you were also arguing. When you turned away from the dock to leave, there was an explosion. She saw you kill the man you were arguing with with a silenced weapon."

"Did she see his weapon, too?"

"Was he an agent?"

"Double agent. Yeah, and no way to prove that now."

Michael watched a tic in his eye develop. So that was Anson's leverage.

"What about the others? Fi watched. You went back toward the explosion and put bullets in the three who were arguing when she got there."

"Did she stick around to count weapons? Or bodies? Or shooters? Because two of them got shots off at me; I was injured that night. And where was Axe?"

"You couldn't see him, but he was there."

Michael watched as he scrolled back in his memory. "He was a SEAL then. They were there? Of course. They must have set the . . . "

"Fi didn't."

"Yeah, quite the reputation your wife has, Westen. It was useful for keeping her incarcerated."

"Anson used that reputation and almost destroyed both of us. She figured out how to break his stranglehold, and it's ended. We need to end to him. I spent five years trying to destroy his organization, but I missed him. That's why he had Max killed. Because I missed him."

"This . . . with me . . . is different."

Michael rose and walked to the opposite side of the table. "I know Anson leveraged a man named Tavian Korzha to assassinate Max. It took a while to find him, but he jumped to his death before I could convince him to come in. Don't jump. We can help."

"Anson had Tavian's family killed. He didn't have anything to live for."

"How long has he been running you?" Michael asked, not without empathy.

"A lifetime. Almost ten years." He rose, stuck his hands in his pockets and walked the opposite side of the room. "Just when I think he's gone, he comes back. He promises I've done the last thing he needs, but comes back. Sometimes he's waits a couple of years. But you must have him worried, because he's in my face every day now. You know he's been trying to kill you for the last five years. Apparently, you weren't what he wanted until he figured out how to use you."

"I know."

"No, you don't." He turned and looked at Michael. "It's occurred to you that anyone who tries to help you dies?"

Michael nodded. "It has."

"And there have been others. Three years ago, you were supposed to meet a CIA investigator, but you kept deflecting the meeting time and place. When he finally got to where you live by the river, you shot him. Anson had me send him after you. I hoped I'd estimated your will to live accurately. Lucky for you . . . or me, I did."

"What the hell does he have on you?" Michael demanded angrily, as the memory of the garrote that nearly took his life resurfaced. "The agent you killed in Tripoli?"

He turned sharply and jammed a finger into Michael's chest. "Yes and no. It's nothing and it's everything he's coerced me into doing . . . like you, Westen. Do you know how much of what I'd been doing you've undone? You stole that software, cleared his name out of CIA files, washed him clean. I'd worked long and hard to make sure every dollar he had was somehow linked to an account on a watch list, and then your friends got his money back."

"Not all of it," Michael said.

"Do you think I'm the only one he runs? He evaluates, decides what and who he wants and goes after it. You have no idea of the scale of his network. You took a lot of it down, but believe me, it's back."

"Management?" Michael asked.

"He's out there, somewhere. Management used to take the lead, now Anson does."

"So who's his leverage? It's always someone you care about . . . "

He shot another sharp glance at Michael.

Michael inhaled sharply. "Raines' wife."

"And Raines _and_ their kids," he growled. "And every time I think I'm close to being rid of that son of a bitch, he has one more job. Just one more thing. Then one more thing. _It never ends_."

His words were virtually Fiona's words before she left. Michael leaned against the table.

"I told my secretary 30 minutes, but I need to go back now. We can't meet again. You're on your own on this. If you come back here again, I'll have you arrested. If you involve me . . ." He glanced at his watch.

"I'll endanger you and everyone you've been protecting. One more thing. You sent your guys to my loft to make a mess and keep us away. Why were you looking for Sizemore?"

"I wasn't . . . I needed a bluff to keep them there. It made Anson happy. He likes that guy for some reason. You've got your family in protective custody, that's good. But I know where you're living now; so does he. Watch your back. Have your friends stay alert."

"Sam?"

What might have been a smile appeared. "That was me. He lost a car but he's alive. Hired the wrong guys to kidnap you. My bad," he laughed without humor. "What you need to do, Westen, is to keep looking at things the way you were. If you focus on the money and arms, there might be a way out of this. But _watch your back_. Time's up. I'm leaving. He's got his thumb on someone on my staff. I'm not sure who. And stay away. _Just stay away_."

With that he flipped off the lights and ventilation, opened the door and made sure it was locked.

"You need your life back," Michael said quietly.

His laugh was cold. "What life?"

He left first. Michael waited five minutes then he left.

But, when the elevator doors opened and Michael scanned the lobby, he noticed Anson entering an elevator on the opposite side of the lobby. He stepped back inside his elevator as two women carrying briefcases and coffee cups got in. As the doors closed on Anson's elevator, he pushed the door hold, excused himself, stepped out and left the building.

#

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#

_If you focus on the money and arms, you might find a way out of this._

Instead of returning to the CIA office, Michael left for the hospital. Fiona was going to relieve Raines' wife who would need to return to her hotel to rest. Jesse had gone to work but would be leaving to spend the afternoon sitting with Pearce. It was a fortunate circumstance because it gave him the breathing room he needed to absorb and reassess everything he'd just learned.

Sometimes all it took was one piece of information to turn everything upside down. He needed to evaluate, organize and dissect this new knowledge. Before he could do anything else, he had to try to grasp the size of the problem. He needed time.

He was aware of how painful the time he'd spent clasped in Anson's iron claw had been, and found himself wondering if he could have lived with for a decade? He found himself offering silent gratitude to Fiona for her brave and bold act, for the selfless, loving gift that saved him. Had saved them.

He felt the weight of all he owed her, and, now, what he owed to Raines' former partner.

The man had been protecting them all.

He'd interceded in ways that buffeted each them from Anson, and in highly intelligent ways Anson and Management wouldn't expect or understand.

Raines and his wife were leaving as he arrived at the hospital. He could see Raines was full of questions, questions he wasn't prepared to answer, so he focused on his wife who did not appear to be feeling well.

"Hey, there. Heading back?" Michael asked. "You look tired."

"I am, but it's good tired," she said. "Dani's awake, but she might not be by the time you get up there."

"Westen, when can we talk?"

"When we have some privacy. Jesse's office?"

"He'll be here soon," Raines said. "You okay?"

"Fine. We'll set something up. Don't you have those meetings with the DEA and Homeland today?"

Raines was distracted then by his wife leaning heavily on his arm. "Yes. Get with Jesse, and call me, all right?"

"Will do," Michael agreed.

He couldn't mask his introspective mood when he arrived at Pearce's room, but he did a passable job of offering a welcome to her. She was sitting up and looking a lot healthier than she had been while she was sleeping.

Fiona was sitting in the chair next to the bed chatting with her. Pearce was propped up, resting on pillows, and disconnected from the medical devices that had been monitoring her the past several days.

"It's good to see you up," he said as he approached the bed to take her hands in his. "I hope you heal fast, Dani. We're going to need your help. What you did, for saving Jesse, thank you."

She smiled, and seemed a bit embarrassed by his praise. "I'm not really the type of person who makes a good patient, so I hope I can get out of here soon." She paused and looked down at his hands, then smiled. "And congratulations, Michael."

Michael glanced at Fi. "She knew what the Claddah meant," she said with a smile as she joined him and he wrapped his arm around her. "I told her we haven't told anyone."

"I understand," Pearce said. "So no one's noticed? Your ring? Hmm. That was the only thing Janssen and I ever disagreed about."

"Has Jesse been here?" Michael wondered, changing the subject he suspected could grow uncomfortable.

Fi smiled. "Not yet, but I told him when he called a little while ago, so I expect he'll be here soon."

As if he was conjured, Jesse appeared at the door. He glanced at Fiona and Michael and then at Pearce.

Fi walked back to the chair to retrieve her purse, and tugged Michael's hand toward the door. "Call me when you need a break, Jess. See you later, Dani."

Out in the hall Michael glanced down. "What was that about?"

"I just know we don't need to be there. So, how was your meeting?"

"Confusing, Fi."

"Good. Let's go home and you can tell me all about it."

"We need to go to a hardware store first."

Fi grinned. "That sounds like something married people do."

Michael sighed. "Or spies."

#

#

#

"Pearce, what the hell were you thinking?" Jesse wanted to know.

After Michael and Fi left the room he walked over and closed the door before turning back to the bed. "You nearly died."

She seemed baffled by his aggressive attitude. "I don't know. It seemed the right thing to do at the time."

"You saved my life, you know that, don't you?"

"You are upright and standing in front of me and obviously alive because you're yelling at me. And I can see there's some kind of bandage there under your shirt, so you got hurt, too. Yes, I can see that you are alive."

She had been awake for several hours; she had talked with doctors, nurses, Raines' wife and Fiona, and Michael and now, that Jesse was here, she was weary. And safe.

She closed her eyes briefly. A few moments later, she would swear someone kissed her forehead. And then she didn't think about anything for five hours. And when she woke, she glanced over and saw him in the chair, his head bent at an uncomfortable angle, hands clasped over his stomach, long legs sprawled in front, soundly sleeping. And she smiled. There really was nothing painful about looking at Jesse Porter, awake or asleep.

#

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#

When he finished adding simple locks to the windows, he stepped out on the front porch, withdrew the slug of mail spilling out of the mailbox intended for the teacher whose house they were leasing. The yard had been freshly mowed, a service included with the lease to be in compliance with the neighborhood association.

He was counting on neighborhood watch folks to provide another level of security. Nothing was quite so helpful to ensure a level of freedom from anxiety as a nosey neighbor. Inside, he finished the brace-locks for the sliding glass door, and the removable brace for the front door. Simple, effective and cheap but far from foolproof; everything he installed was just another way to provide a warning.

If someone wanted inside, there was always a way. All he hoped to gain was to accentuate the warning system Jesse's wicked wireless device offered.

Fi had been sitting outside, enjoying the late afternoon sun. After he was finished, he joined her, and brought her a glass of iced tea and one for himself.

She glanced over at him. "Are you finished fixing and brooding?"

"I wasn't . . ."

She stopped him with a look.

"Okay, I was."

She sat up, took the glass of tea he offered and looked over the top of her sunglasses at him. She didn't say a word, but the invitation was there.

He could read the confusion in her eyes, and to take that away he told her what he'd learned during the twenty minute meeting that turned so many things upside down. When he finished, he turned to her.

"You can't tell anyone this, Michael. It'll endanger him."

"I know."

He could feel her watching him, and glanced back to see concern in her expression.

"Michael?"

He reached and grasped her hand. "I was just thinking that he's a lot like me . . . only he doesn't have someone like you to save him."

The moment was interrupted when his phone rang. He reached into his jeans pocket, glanced at the caller ID and opened his phone. "Hey, Raines. Yeah, all right. Sure. We'll be there."

As they entered the back door into the kitchen from the patio area, Michael took Fi's glass and his and set them down together on the counter before reaching for her and pulling her against him.

He held her carefully as if he might break her, and lowered his head to kiss the sweet crevice between her chin and her neck. "Thank you for saving me, Fi."

She turned and looked into his eyes and raised her lips to his. "We'll end this, Michael. I know we can."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

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Fiona pulled away from him and held his arms. "There's something you're not telling me." He looked down, but she tilted her head to look up in his face**. **

"I saw Anson today," Michael said. "He was getting on an elevator at the FBI building."

"Did he see you?"

"No, but a minute earlier he would have."

"I thought he was on a terrorist watch list."

"There are almost 800,000 people on the consolidated list, and he wasn't buying a ticket or boarding a plane."

"He should be on a most wanted list. "

"Yeah."

#

#

#

They had taken showers and changed for the meeting with Raines and were on their way out the door when Fiona's oversized shoulder bag bumped the pile of mail Michael had left on the counter. It scattered all over the floor.

"What is this?" she wondered.

"The owner's mail that was crammed in the mailbox. We can take it to her sister tomorrow."

They both stopped and leaned down to scoop up the envelopes and catalogs, but the handwritten note on the bright yellow paper blinked like a neon light. It wasn't in an envelope, simply folded in half with thick black printing inside. She opened it, read it then handed it to Michael.

_Hope you enjoy your new home. AF_

Her eyes met his angry blue gaze.

"He warned me about this. He said if he knew where we were now, Anson did, too. He's . . ."

"Crazy, Michael. Crazy." She didn't know what she'd have to do or say so that Michael could understand that Anson had crossed a bridge and burned sanity behind himself.

"Dangerous." Michael corrected softly, as he held open the door, locked it then used the remote to set the alarm. "But so are we."

As they walked across the yard, they looked at the garage and then each other. "Better be safe," Michael said.

He reached for a flashlight mounted to a charger unit on the wall and they both did a thorough under the car before they used the remote entry key to release the hood latch and check the engine compartment and trunk areas.

"We need to get another one of those alarms from Jesse," Fiona said. "I hope he's got a box of them."

Their 20 minute ride passed in silence. Fiona reached over and laid a hand on Michael's leg, as if to reassure herself his presence was solid. After he parked the car she turned to look at him. "You're brooding again."

"Working a problem."

"I can see that. It's the same problem you were brooding about earlier. The more I think about it . . . I think we need to find a way to work with him without endangering him."

Michael reached for her hand. "I understand what he's been doing, Fi. It's a variation of what Victor did. Of what I tried and failed to do."

"You need to tell Raines."

He nodded in agreement.

As they left the car, they joined hands to walk the distance to the hotel entrance, allowing the weight of this new and awful knowledge of their hidden protector, a man whom no one protected, to slow their steps and burden them. When they reached the hotel entrance, they paused and turned to look back as the sun cast long shadows across the concrete and stone entrance. The lights inside the pool of the graceful exterior fountain blinked on, the mechanical hush of moving water soothing the city sounds of night coming to life.

Beyond the lights, there were too many dangerous things coming alive. Fi looked up to Michael. "We won't let him win."

"We can't." He looked down at her. "We won't."

As they entered the hotel, they both sensed they were being watched, and their alertness levels surged as they waited by the elevators.

When Raines' wife opened the door, Michael smiled. "That nap agreed with you."

"It did. Come in. I hope you don't mind, but I thought I'd make this a working dinner. You haven't eaten, have you?"

They both smiled and indicated no.

"The room's plum full of audio jammers, Michael. All is well." She winked, accurately answering the question he didn't ask.

"Good to know."

As they stepped into the living area, the balcony doors were open with a table for four sitting in front, as the room was filled with the lovely, humid breeze that bore a generous scent of ocean air.

"This is pleasant," Fiona said to Raines' wife.

"It is. I love London, but I have to say I could be enticed to live here with very little effort," she said as Raines joined them with an open bottle.

"The boys would agree with you. All they do is complain about cold and grey." He handed everyone a glass and read the label on the bottle. "It's a fusion with the Lodi appellation," he said. "It should be quite good."

The toast came from Raines wife. "The very first order of business is to say congratulations, Michael and Fiona, for your marriage. We wish you a lifetime of happiness."

Michael and Fiona glanced at each other and smiled and said "thank you," but Raines seemed confused. His wife laughed. "It's not like he was hiding his wedding ring."

Raines glanced at Fiona and then his wife before looking at Michael. "Yes, congratulations."

"Has anyone else noticed?" Raines' wife asked, plainly amused by her husband's fumbling response.

"Pearce," Michael answered.

She laughed again. "Of course she did."

As four glasses touched each other with crystal chimes, their meal arrived at the door, ushered in on twin carts. The food was quite good, and the conversation hovered quietly around small, safe subjects and stories of the Raines' sons. Unspoken was the knowledge that Michael's report to Raines would begin after the meal.

When the time came for that, Michael sought assurance the audio jammers were working properly. Raines' wife was about to leave, but Fiona put a gentle hand on her arm. "Please, stay. You'll want to hear this, too."

Fiona watched their host and hostess share a glance, and then watched expressions change on their faces as Michael told them what he'd learned when he talked to Raines' former partner and his wife's former fiancé earlier in the day.

"He told me if I showed up at his office again, he'd have me arrested," Michael said, concluding his report. "And I believe him. I don't want to put him in harm's way more than he is, but we need his help."

Raines and his wife had sat silently listening to Michael tell them something opposite of what they had long believed of the man who was nothing more than an angry, annoying, festering thorn from their past. Instead, he was man who had been protecting them and their sons for the past decade. They exchanged a long glance.

It was clearly an overwhelming piece of information.

"I know you need time to think about this," Michael said.

Raines nodded and looked at his wife.

"And I want to bring Sam, Jesse and Pearce, if she's well enough, into this conversation. We were headed the right direction, working on the money and arms. But I really think we need his help," Michael said quietly. "Raines, do you think you can come up with a way to make contact him, and arrange a meeting?"

"I'll figure something out."

#

#

#

When they arrived at the hospital they heard the sound of Sam's laughter as they walked toward Pearce's room.

"Swear to God, she used a rubber bullet put that guy on his knees, otherwise Jess and I'd be dead. I've never seen a guy that big."

"He was, too," Jesse agreed. "Gi-normus. Picked me up and threw me like I was a ragdoll."

Pearce was laughing, and holding her shoulder with her arm that was not in a sling, while Sam and Jesse regaled her with a Fiona story about one of their relatively recent operations.

Sam looked up as Michael and Fiona walked in the room. "Hey, the gang's all here. What have you two been doing? Oops not supposed to ask newlyweds that, huh?"

When Fiona actually blushed at that remark, Sam whistled low, then grinned. "Whoa there. That's something new. Congratulations, you two. Tell your ma yet, Mikey?"

"Yeah, congratulations," Jesse said. "Pearce told us you both finally took my advice. Glad to hear it."

"Thanks," Michael said. "And, no, Sam, we haven't told my mom."

"Yeah, she's still pretty irritated that you've got her in protective custody."

"Is that what she's calling it?"

Sam grinned. "Yup. She found a pay phone somewhere and called me today."

Michael closed his eyes and shook his head. "That's just great."

"Well, you wouldn't take her calls."

"I say you should save that bit of good news for when you need it," Jesse advised. "Which might be soon."

Michael held up a finger. He needed to change the subject. "You guys, we need to meet, and I hope Pearce can be there."

"They won't tell me when I can get out," she said. "But I'm hoping the doctor will let me out tomorrow sometime."

"That soon? Are you sure? You're reminding me of Michael, now," Fi said.

"Really, I'm sure. I'd much rather be out of here than stuck here," Dani said.

"Sure," Jesse said. "My office? Want to wait until they release Pearce?"

"That would be fine. Call us, OK?"

#

#

#

They were only a few miles away from their house when two fire trucks raced past them. When a third nearly ran them off the street, Michael and Fiona looked at each other and Michael stepped on the gas to follow.

The closer they got to home, they could smell it.

And see it.

The lovely house, their new home, was engulfed in fire.

The night dark sky was lit by the inferno of fierce red orange flames against a golden backdrop. Thick smoke bellowed from the windows. Trucks, hoses, firemen shouting and police barricades kept onlookers away. They left Fi's car parked next to a police cruiser, locked it and walked until they were two houses away from the devastating scene.

"You, there, stay back!" the police officer ordered as they approached.

"That's our house," Michael said.

"No, it isn't," he said, pointing over his shoulder. "It's hers."

Michael turned to look. "We're leasing it from her. What happened?"

"Gas line explosion. Did you leave a burner on?"

"We just moved in. We haven't used the stove yet," Fiona said.

They walked over and joined the real estate agent whose sister owned the lovely house they had just leased. "I tried calling you, but I must have a wrong number," she said looking at her phone screen and then Michael. "I'm so glad you weren't inside. This is just terrible! Did you move your furniture in yet?"

"Just a few things," Michael said, looking at Fiona. This was no accident and they both knew it. They assured her they hadn't had a chance to use the stove yet, so they couldn't fathom how a gas leak would have occurred. The neighbors reported hearing an explosion prior to the fire.

They stayed and watched firefighters spray down the house as well as neighboring houses on both sides. They stayed to watch for a half hour before deciding there was nothing else they could do. Michael wrote a number down on a piece of paper and gave it to the realtor. "That's my mother's number. She's out of town but we're watching her house. She's got an answering machine, so if you need to get in touch, call that number."

Unspoken was the decision to return to the loft. They made the trip with the windows in Fiona's car rolled down because the acrid scent of smoke had adhered to their clothing and hair, leaving a greasy film on everything they wore as well as their skin.

Climbing the steps, Michael discovered he now possessed newly mixed emotions about his loft. He'd seen it shortly after the Sam and his mom cleaned up after the FBI surveillance group had invaded his private area, and he'd been working with Jesse and Sam and Pearce from the loft for weeks.

Now, what he saw were snow globes.

And he was glad for that one thing. Fi's snow globes were still here, intact, instead of being destroyed in a fire.

As he flipped on the lights, he realized Fi had not been here since the day she had left to turn herself in to the FBI. Months ago, a life time ago.

He looked around and debated, seeing things he'd shoved away.

Fiona had been over there because he'd handcuffed her to that wire wall. She was screaming his name. He closed his eyes as if in pain from the memory.

Anson slithered in over there, giddy with what he'd recorded them saying to each other, their private conversation, now recorded. He'd been so happy to spin his poison around them. And over there, was where he found Sam after Fi left. And there, where Sam stood telling Anson not to touch his beer.

When he was working, and it had been just him, Sam, Jesse and Pearce, it was different. But now, with Fi here . . . there were too many burdensome memories. He couldn't stay here tonight. He couldn't go back in time, not tonight.

Fiona was his wife now. Everything had changed. The loss of their private place, a place of serenity without harsh words, was nearly overwhelming to him in this moment.

He didn't realize Fiona had been watching him with much concern until he looked up and saw her standing next to the bed that was as barren of sheets as it'd been the day he'd rented the loft from Oleg. There was a deeply concerned expression on her face.

He met her gaze and spoke softly. "Fi . . . I don't want to remember what's happened here. Can we clean up and go stay at my Mom's house or someplace else tonight? Would that be okay with you?"

"Of course. I can feel . . . it, too."

"Then you go first and take your shower, and I'll call Jesse. I don't know who has the remote for the alarm he put on Mom's house."

But when he opened his phone to call Jesse he could see he had a message. "How did you like my wedding gift? AF"

He held the phone open and stared at the message.

Fiona was absolutely taken back by the change she saw washing over Michael. She closed the distance between them to put her hand on his arm, an arm that felt as if muscle, bone and flesh had turned into steel. His jaw tightened and squared; she could see the small muscles in his cheek working. She slid her fingers up against his palm to loosen the hold he had on the phone, to read the message that had brought about such change.

"He's crazy, Michael."

He looked down into her eyes. "He's dangerous, Fi. _But, so am I. So are we_."

While Fiona took her shower, Michael retrieved a cell phone from under the counter and left the phone Anson used to leave his message on the counter. If Anson wanted to track his whereabouts by the phone he so obviously had linked, he'd find it at the loft. Tomorrow, he'd turn it over to CIA techs to see what they could find.

He knew there were at least three more handguns the FBI had missed during their sweep of the loft, so he gathered those up, before he began packing some of his clothing.

The smoke infused garments he and Fiona wore would stay in the loft with the phones Anson had tracked.

#

#

#

In the end, Michael and Fiona decided on the same hotel where Raines and his wife were staying until they could locate a place to live that suited them better.

If Anson had invaded one house, chances that he'd been to his mother's house were high.

While Fi packed her things, he called Jesse and Sam and told them about the house explosion and fire and about the message Anson left on his phone. He warned them to stay alert. Jesse was in the hospital with Pearce, and didn't plan on leaving. Then, he'd called Raines and explained the situation to him.

But he and Fi needed to rest and they needed privacy. Michael had developed an overpowering need for personal privacy and peace. It had become stronger than any other consideration. So when Raines suggested the hotel, it was an easy temporary solution.

And Fiona liked the bathroom so well that she'd chosen a much longer and far more luxurious bath than the shower the loft offered.

There was a television in the room but instead of turning it on Michael sat on the couch, his feet on the low table as he stared ahead and mentally organized his battle plan.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

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#

#

_If you focus on the money and arms, you might find a way out of this._

_If you focus on the money and arms._

Might find a way? No.

_Might _relied on luck instead of disciplined commitment. After today, Michael knew there was no backing down or backing away.

Months ago when he'd confronted Anson to tell him he knew of his plans, and that he would stop him, he'd seen the fear he'd put on his face. When Fi's shot wanged the back window of his car, he saw Anson's fear escalate. And then, he made the nearly fatal error that turned his life upside down.

He'd walked away and left Anson there. It was Fiona who ultimately paid the price for his mistake, and Fiona who had redeemed him with her gift.

It was that mistake that gave Anson the belief that he could control him. After today, he knew the man would think he'd gained the upper hand again. That he'd renewed his fear. That could not be more wrong.

Fi was out of prison, never to return.

She was the key.

He held her now in his arms in the middle of an oversized king-size bed. Soft, sweetly scented woman. His wife. They belonged to each other now, and Anson could not come between them, no matter how clever he thought he'd been to learn or guess they had married.

The only thing Anson gained today was Michael's complete and utter commitment to put him behind bars forever, or end his life. Either was acceptable.

_If you focus on the money and arms._

That would be the way they'd do it. The MI5 link solidified the international aspect of Anson's business, and it was a business, the first order of which was, before he hurt anyone else or destroyed another person, to capture him.

They would figure out how to do it. No problem was without a solution. No question was without an answer. It wouldn't matter how many mercenaries Anson hired. Michael was committed to putting him behind bars, and sending him, Larry and Vaughn to Guantanamo. If Vaughn could provide additional assistance, that might be worth an upgrade in his sip of Scotch.

"Stop it."

Fiona pushed herself out of Michael's loose embrace and rose above him, brushing her hair to one side. She smoothed her fingers along his cheek and put her hands over his head, as if by taking his head and holding it, she could redirect his war planning or exile it for the night.

"Stop it now. This time does not belong to Anson, it's mine. Mine and yours. Our time. Only our time."

She lowered her mouth to his, and used her hands, and moved her body over his to banish the man who had taken up residence in her husband's psyche.

"If you're going to obsess over something," she breathed hot against his throat before finding his mouth again, "it will be me, Michael. No one else."

With that, he wrapped his arms around her so tightly she thought she might lose the ability to breathe, but she returned his passionate embrace with equal strength. He moved against her as if to enfold her into himself, and released her only to turn and possess her so completely that neither could think of anything but the other. And when he tired momentarily, she imprinted herself on his soul again so that he would know there was no room for anything or anyone to come between them, tonight or ever.

And then they slept.

#

#

#

"You're still here," Dani said. "Why are you still here?"

It was not quite 5 a.m. as she struggled to sit upright. She needed the bathroom and she needed help, but not with the back of her hospital gown hanging wide open because she'd need that footed cane they'd left for her to use, and as she learned yesterday, it took all of her strength to focus on using it one-handed.

Fiona would be bringing some of her clothing by today, but that wouldn't be for a few hours which left her nearly naked in a small room with an overpoweringly large male who had appointed himself her caretaker and body guard.

A very attractive, overpoweringly large male.

"I'm not leaving. Need some help?" Jesse asked around a yawn as he stretched upright from the chair he'd been sleeping in for almost a week.

"I think I can handle this on my own."

"Doesn't look like it from here."

"Would you leave? Please?"

"Nope. Come on, let me help."

She rolled her eyes and reached for the call button for the nurses' station.

"Now what'd you do that for?" Jesse wondered. "I told you I'll help." He reached and clicked off the call button.

"Thanks, but I need a little personal space here."

He hid a smile. He knew exactly what she wanted, and Miss Tough As Nails Unless She'd Been Shot wasn't going to get it. Grabbing his jacket, he held it up. "Your robe, milady."

She stared and the garment in his hand for a moment before reaching for it with her good arm and sliding it around her as best she could. Then he gently reached and took hold of it, and helped her put one arm through one sleeve before draping the rest of it over her bandaged shoulder.

He put one arm around her waist and helped her slide down from the bed until her feet touched the floor and then steadied her as she walked to the bathroom.

"Jesse, I can do this," she said.

"I need to be able to help you." He recognized her embarrassment with the situation.

She reached the door and steadied herself by holding the door frame. She took hold of the sturdy metal safety bar inside the bathroom before she turned and shut the door, avoiding his gaze. She flipped on the fan switch, thankful for the masking noise.

Scented with something reminiscent of sandalwood, his jacket reached below her knees. The one sleeve her arm was through fell a good twelve inches below her fingertips. When she had finished and washed her hands, she opened the door to find him exactly where he was when she'd closed the door.

She looked up into the warmth of his gaze. "You don't have to wait on me."

He smiled. "But I do."

With that he reached, lifted her up and carried her back to the hospital bed. "You're stuck with me until you can show me a one-inch grouping at the range."

"Not necessary," she grumbled. "And don't do that again."

"What? Carry you? Or this?"

_This_ turned out to be the softest, sweetest, lightest, most perfect kiss she had ever received. Then she opened her eyes to look into his and felt her heart roar.

"Thank you for saving my life, Dani."

She had to look away then because she was as confused as she had ever been in her life, and confusion was not something Kimberly Danielle Pearce was familiar with, in any form. She always knew what to do next, what would come next, and that kiss didn't fit into any part of her life.

It startled her to discover she wanted another one.

She said, "you're welcome," and immediately felt foolish for speaking, so she closed her eyes, lay back into the pillow on the bed and turned her face away from him.

"I'm getting some coffee. I'll be back."

Outside the room, Jesse took a deep breath. Then another. He'd planned to kiss her cheek, and had no explanation, even to himself, as to why he had touched his lips to hers. He realized he had just complicated a whole lot of things for himself, and he could not come up with a single, solitary reason why he'd done that. Except that . . . he wanted to.

Dani didn't know it yet, but he had no plans to let her out of his sight.

She had protected him; now turnabout was fair play. She wouldn't like it, but he was taking her home with him. This business with Anson had escalated, and Mike and Fiona were so wrapped up in each other now that they were married, there was no way he'd ask them to help, except for short periods of time.

He had just come to a sudden realization. He found he had an unforeseen ability to be a lot more empathetic to Mike's state of mind about Fi. A lot more. And how did that happen?

#

#

#

It was nearly eight in the morning when Michael and Fi appeared at Pearce's hospital doorway. Fi entered the room with a smile and a tote bag full of things Dani would need to feel like herself again, starting with wearing her own clothing.

Jesse left as soon as they arrived. Fi was aware of Jesse's plans to take Dani to his townhouse so he could keep an eye on her while she continued to recover. As she suspected, Dani wasn't very happy with that situation, but it would be a good solution to keep her safe while she recovered.

She and Michael had gone to the room she kept when she was working in Miami to gather her personal items to bring to the hospital. The rest of her things were packed in a bag waiting in the trunk of Fi's car.

As he helped her, she was filling her in with as many details as she could, on work they hoped she could be involved with. They'd taken Jesse's offer to use his highly secure work environment to discuss the most sensitive information. Other critical meetings would be held at the CIA offices. The matter of locating and bringing Anson Fullerton to justice was underway.

Fi told her Raines had been at work since much earlier in the day, while his wife was spending her morning resting on the couch in his office. Sam had joined them.

They were staying in pairs, teaming up for sensible security. Over breakfast in Raines' room, he and Michael had made basic plans on how they would track Anson's movements, while Raines discussed how he planned to get his FBI counterpart and former partner to the CIA for a meeting.

While they were waiting for Pearce's doctor to appear and release her, Fiona realized tht between her bandages and the way her clavicle was taped, she might need more help than she'd want Jesse to provide.

"Michael had this same kind of wound about a year and a half ago. Let me get you a few things to be comfortable in," she said as she helped Dani put her arms through shirt sleeves. "It'll be a small way I can return your kindness for the clothing you gave me in D.C. Let me know what kind of things you'd like and some sizes and I'll do my best. Besides, this has a fun aspect. Michael won't let me go by myself to shop, so he'll have to stand guard while I do, and he hates that."

Dani laughed then. "Of course he does."

Sharing the burdensome knowledge of Raines' former partner's role in each of their lives would be the starting point for the meeting at Jesse's place of business. Everyone needed to understand the enormity of the task.

Jesse had left the hospital when they arrived; he'd gone home to shower, change and went to his job. They would meet him there.

When the doctor arrived, he had a short list of orders for Dani about bathing, medications, keeping the wound bandages dry and when to see him in his office. Fiona wasn't too sure who was more relieved to be leaving the hospital, Dani or Michael.

Michael had called Jesse with the news they were leaving, while Jesse would contact everyone else. They were the last three to arrive at Jesse's office. There was a wheelchair waiting at the front door when Michael pulled up at the security company's main entrance. Fiona and the footed cane provided assistance so Dani could sit in the annoying thing.

"I should be really irritated about this chair," she said. "But not today."

#

#

#

Like a field commander addressing his troops, Michael began the meeting by pacing.

"We're missing Peterbaugh and Carnahan, but they should be here by Friday," he said. "When they get here, I'll be working with them. We're going to capture Anson. We need help to do that. He's here, somewhere in Miami. We need to figure out where. Last night he sent a message to my phone; I left it with the techs to see if they can come up with something to lead us back to him.

"Also, last night, after he or someone he hired bypassed Jesse's screaming alarm and set a bomb in the house Fi and I leased we realized Anson actually left us a warning in the mailbox, but we didn't know it was a warning until the house was destroyed. What we need there are all the police and fire investigator's reports.

"We each need to do whatever we can to stay safe. You all know how to do that. Stay alert. What I also need to make everyone aware of is the result of a meeting I had yesterday morning with Raines' counterpart at the FBI, the guy everyone knows didn't want to release Fi into CIA custody. Doesn't like to cooperate. Yells at us. Sends Harris and Lane to annoy us . . . turns out, he was protecting Fi, protecting all of us, not in the usual ways, though. Sam was kidnapped by a couple of clumsy guys he hired because they were clumsy. Sam lost his car, but didn't lose his life. Anson's been blackmailing him for a decade."

Michael stopped pacing and looked away then. "He put himself at risk by verifying what we thought about this situation yesterday. If we change our behaviors in any way, it can hurt him. We can't do anything to warn Anson we know about this. At the same time, we need to do what he's been doing. If you find a way to throw a roadblock, throw it."

He glanced at Raines who stood. "We're following the arms and following the money. Anson's link to MI5 is the crack in his operation we need to widen and spread apart so it can swallow him. Pearce and my wife will be going over the OMB reports Pearce pulled right before she and Jesse were injured. We need to look at everything there."

"And Sam and I are going to be going over the DEA stuff once you've wrangled that away from the FBI. Today, you think?" Jesse asked.

"Or tomorrow," Raines said. "We have to play that very, very carefully. We don't know if Anson has someone in the DEA or not. We're going to operate on the premise that he does."

"And that's how we should be looking at everything," Michael said. "Like Anson has someone inside working for him."

"Are we done here?" Sam asked. "I've still got a car problem."

"I'll go with," Jesse offered.

"We're headed back to the office," Raines said. "What are you doing, Westen?"

Michael looked down at Fi with a grim expression. "Shopping. We're going shopping. And then we'll see you at HQ."

Pearce grinned.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

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#

"Is this going to take long?" he asked.

"Not any longer than it has to."

"I'll just . . . be over here."

If ever a human being was out of place, it was Michael Westen in a high end discount store. There was no way for him to be inconspicuous next to a wall display of purses. This wasn't an environment suited to his abilities to blend in.

It had been some time since Michael last allowed the full extent of his predatory nature to surface, but it was in force today and barely hiding under the surface. If he was trying to keep it tamped down, and he probably was, it wasn't working. At least he was wearing a pastel blue shirt today instead of the black polo, Fiona thought. That helped soften an edge or two.

They were in the same kind of store she'd visited with Dani Pearce several months ago, when she needed something more appropriate than a sundress, sandals and a loaner CIA jacket for a meeting with Michael's agency people. That shopping trip hadn't included him, and if the truth were to be told, she'd rather be making this trip without him, but that wasn't going to happen in light of events of the past 24 hours.

She didn't plan on browsing long, but she did want to repay Dani for her kindness, and having packed her clothing this morning, she now had a good idea of the type of things she would need while she recovered, especially since Jesse was determined he would keep her safe until she could take care of herself again.

Fi turned around and looked at the display of bras, checked for labels and sizes and debated a moment before selecting two strapless convertible types that should be comfortable while her surgical wounds healed. She was walking toward athletic wear when an silver gray set of lounging pants and a top caught her eye. Dani's tastes fell into classic and practical categories and colors. This would be perfect.

She glanced over her shoulder to see where Michael was, and found him behind her, standing near shelves of sandals, still intimidating the shopping public. She watched three women turn down the aisle, spot him and then turn and walk the opposite direction.

During the twenty minutes it took Fiona to gather the things she wanted, Michael's sentry presence near her had created the equivalent of a no-fly zone. As they waited together in the check-out line, the gray headed woman in front of her turned, looked at her, then up at Michael and whispered. "Is he with you?"

Fi nodded.

The woman turned forward only to look back over her shoulder at him and spoke to Fi again. "He doesn't like shopping, does he?"

"No," Fi said quietly. "He doesn't."'

"You should leave him at home the next time."

"I'll think about it."

Fi, amused by the woman's remark, glanced over her shoulder at Michael, who was not amused. He glanced toward the ceiling then excused himself to wait by the door next to an older man sitting on a bench.

By the time she checked out and they left the store, it appeared her brief shopping trip had the negative effect on his mood she fully expected it would. Humility, thy name is husband, she thought, as she handed him the keys to her car and opened the passenger side door. "What did that man say to you?"

"He said we must be newlyweds."

"That was it?"

"Yup."

"Mmm. Looked like it was a longer conversation," Fi said.

As she watched him, she knew any common sensible person would take one look at him and go the opposite direction, so she allowed his negative mood for the moment. She'd said nothing during the meeting in Jesse's office or during the drive to the shopping area she wanted to visit. Before they left, he said he understood her desire to return the kindness Pearce had shown her, but she knew it kept him from what he wanted to do: hunt for Anson.

Fi saw the measured glance Sam had given him in Jesse's office, and she had also caught the warning look Sam sent her way.

Since Michael had returned to Miami, he had been forced to learn, slowly, to rely on others. He had almost shut the door on that part of his rapacious nature that he kept hidden until he'd opened his phone to the message Anson left after their house was destroyed.

While he was highly effective in his current mode, it also gave him tunnel vision. And that was the danger. They had been down this road before without positive results. She didn't want to repeat the past, not now. Not now.

This attitude was one of the underlying reasons she'd turned herself in to the FBI. She didn't know how to deal with this now that their circumstances had changed. How could she stop Michael from being himself, she wondered silently. _She didn't want to, still . . ._

When her phone rang, she glanced at him and answered. "Just Fiona will do, Barry. Not Fi, baby. Yes, I'll tell him. Yes, immediately. See you there."

"Turn around. Barry wants to meet us at the park across from Carlito's. He said there's something you'll want to see."

"The last thing he found was a way to find Vaughn." Michael's grin was all teeth without the smile.

#

#

#

Barry was not alone.

Sitting next to him on the concrete picnic bench was Oswald Patterson, and next to Oswald, his girlfriend Sherry. She was the woman Oswald had left to find after Michael copied Oswald's intercepted Void-BOT malware from the coke dealer who took it from the HSA/FBI/DEA facility. It had been stored there with highly confidential and confiscated evidence in need of extreme safeguarding.

After Sam and Jesse manipulated the cocaine dealer trying to kill Oswald by giving him access cards to the facility, he'd been covered with nearly invisible micro RFID trackers, tracked and then arrested by Miami-Dade cops, FBI and Homeland Security agents.

For Oswald, it was all good news.

The dealer no longer wanted him dead, he got to keep the five million dollars the dealer exchanged for the access cards, and he no longer needed an FBI-provided identity. That gave him the freedom to search for Sherry who had gone to the Dominican Republic for her safety.

For Michael and Fiona, it was all bad news.

The theft and copying operation opened the doors for Anson to reveal the full extent of the leverage he would bring to bear on Michael, leverage Fiona knew he would never end, leverage Michael desperately wanted to find a way out and through.

Sherry's arm was wrapped through Oswald's, and it appeared, at least to Fiona, that Barry, personally, was anything but happy about that situation.

"Michael," Barry said, extending his hand. He nodded to Fi. "Good to see you. Ozzie says he knows you both, and he needs to tell you something. So my job here is done now. See you later."

Barry slung his leather messenger bag across his chest and walked away, a slightly sour expression on his face.

Fiona turned to Michael. "I'll be right back."

"Stay close," Michael warned.

She caught up to Barry quickly and threaded her arm thorough his, slowing his steps. She steered him to a bench within sight of Michael and Oswald and Sherry.

"So what was that about?" she asked.

"Just helping," Barry said with a hint of exasperation. "That's what I do. I help. I really need to leave, Fi."

"Tell me about Sherry."

Barry flinched then looked up and over the top of his sunglasses at her and sighed. "You know I have trouble keeping my special ladies _my_ ladies. I thought Sherry had changed, then Oswald came back a week ago and she disappeared again. Just like that."

Fiona filled in the rest of the story. "She can't decide which one of you she likes better, so she changes her mind so one of you is always unhappy."

Barry sighed. "Yes. You know, Michael made everything worse when he helpd Oswald get Xavier's five million and then had him arrested. I helped Oz stash the money," he said, pausing to sigh again. "It was like, like self flagellation, but you know me, I strive for professionalism."

"And the commission."

"Of course. But I don't play games, either, you know. Video games."

"And Sherry does." Fi patted his arm. "I really think you deserve someone who doesn't need to make friends jealous over her attention."

Barry sat up a bit straighter and turned to look at Fiona straight on. He didn't say anything for a minute and then he smiled and winked. "You're right. Thanks, Mrs. Westen."

She smiled, surprised, at his remark. "How . . . ?"

"He's wearing a wedding ring. Think I didn't notice?" He stood, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Thanks for the advice. Be happy."

By the time she turned back to Michael, he was on his phone and Oswald and Sherry were walking the opposite direction.

"What happened?" they both asked of each other at the same time.

"Come on, and I'll tell you on our way to the realtor's office. You first. What was Barry's problem?"

"Oh, not much. Apparently he's been sweet on Sherry, but she plays her male friends off each other. And what's your news?"

Michael's predatory smile returned. "Oswald figured out how to reverse Void-BOT."

Fiona gasped. "That means . . ."

"Anson's secret life is no longer secret. The information we can retrieve will be out of date but it's more information than we currently have."

"And why are we going to the realtor's office?"

"The fire and arson investigators told her it wasn't a gas line explosion. It was a bomb. She has the reports and wanted me . . ." Michael paused.

"Does she know your connection to-"

"Not yet," he said, slowing his steps at Fi's car. He squinted and looked off into the distance. "I need to talk to Raines first."

Fi agreed. "It sounds like a trap."

"It does, doesn't it?"

Fiona waited until they returned to the CIA offices before expressing her concern as they waited for the parking garage elevator.

"Michael, I'm worried . . ."

"I know," he said quietly. "It took me a while to figure out what you and Sam weren't saying this morning. I'm not about to do anything foolish, Fi."

"Promise?"

"I do."

#

#

#

Raines agreed with Michael's assessment.

"It sounds exactly like a trap. I wonder whose?" Raines said. "Why don't you call her back and tell her to send the reports to your insurance company, since you just took out a renters' policy."

"Address? Phone?"

Raines provided both, direct links to an insurance business in Tampa anyone working in intelligence would recognize as a CIA fronted company.

They were sitting in Raines outer office at the Miami facility, because his wife and Pearce were in his office, both sleeping, both recovering, and both in a safe location. Raines had a second couch moved into his office just for Pearce. After she and his wife finished earmarking the OMB data files suitable for further investigation, they were exhausted so his office was doing double duty as a safe room while he worked at an assistant's desk. The entire area was behind glass walls, as secure as it could be.

"Let's find out if our friend is interested," Raines said quietly. "Then we can test the water and find out if he wants to swim with us. Now, what's this about Oswald?"

Michael produced a data card. "He said he's had an attack of conscience about creating Void-BOT and since we met, he's been working on a program to remove and restore information that it removed from the network."

"When you installed it," Raines said, gritting his teeth.

"Yes, when I installed it. I thought we had moved on, Raines."

"We have, which is why you're going to take this to tech and explain it all to them, how you installed it and want you want to do with it now."

"After I make a call to the realtor. Also, do we have anything from listening to Larry and Vaughn? Or the ID of the guy who shot Pearce?"

"I'll find out."

Fiona sat three desks away watching and listening to the exchange.

Not everything was smooth sailing with Raines, no matter how lovely his wife was.

#

#

#

"You can stay here. I, uh, moved my stuff out. Changed the sheets."

It was the master bedroom of Jesse's townhouse, and Dani was anything but comfortable with the situation. "I can stay in the guest room."

"It's upstairs. You can't do stairs yet."

She frowned.

"Give it time. You'll recover. But you've got everything here including privacy. The bathroom in there, closet here. TV if you want and the remote's on top."

"Jesse, you don't have to do this. Really."

"Pearce, look at this."

He reached into the closet and pulled out a brown paper bag. Inside was the blouse, a bra and lightweight jacket and slacks, and well the shoes and socks she'd worn the day they investigated the weapons facility. Her clothing had been cut off her body by EMTs and ER staff, then left in her room with her personal possessions, a watch and necklace, following surgery.

As Jesse had opened the bag to show her, a body blow of memory hit him. The garments told a devastating story.

He held up the blouse for her to see. "This is why I need to do this." The entire garment stained dark with her blood, had dried rumpled. It had been cut at the seams to allow the EMTs access to her wound.

She reached for the plastic bag that held her watch and jewelry.

"I put your .45 in my gun safe, by the way."

She felt a bit weak, seeing the shirt, and tightened her grip on the footed cane, then looked up at him. "You were injured, too."

He unbuttoned his shirt to the middle of his chest and spread it open to reveal a small bandage at the base of his throat. He held up a battered gold medal. "You stopped it. The bullet tore through you, hit my medal and lodged about an inch in here. They removed it in the ER. I kept the thing as a souvenir, but you can have it if you want. It's just dumb luck it didn't hit anything vital. But if you hadn't done what you did, which was pretty stupid, by the way, I'd be dead. So you're just going to have to put up with me until you're healed."

"All right," she said slowly.

"Fi said you're going to need help with your bandage. If you're not too fussy, I can do that, too, but you need to ask because I'm not a mind reader. Or Fi said she can come over in the morning. It's up to you."

"She said Michael had a wound like this recently."

"He did."

"What happened?"

Jesse paused before answering. "I shot him. It's a long story. So are you good here, Pearce? I put your bags there, so you don't have to bend over, and Fi left this stuff. And there was a bag of stuff that looked like it should go in the bathroom so I put it there."

He wasn't done explaining life as she would know it yet. "There's an intercom system here, so if you need something, hit that panel by the bed, and there's one in the bathroom, too. Are you hungry?"

"What? Ah, uh, no. Not really. A glass for water though?"

"How about I bring you a bottle?"

With that he left, leaving Dani to wonder what had happened between this morning and now. Jesse was short with her, almost angry. Not that she expected something different, except that she did.

She toed off her shoes and sat on the bed then lay back and turned, tucking her knees. A few seconds later she was sound asleep.

When Jesse returned with the bottle of water a minute later, he found her taking up the smallest space anyone could take at the edge of a king size bed. He reached for an afghan Fi insisted he needed for the chair in the corner and covered her with it, made sure the bathroom light was left on and turned out the bedside lamp. Then he leaned over and kissed her forehead.

He hoped he could survive Dani Pearce's recovery.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

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#

The day morphed into tedium and paperwork.

No one believed the devil lived in details more than those who worked in clandestine services. And there were many, many details floating just out of range, caught somewhere in the ether, details Michael wanted to put his hands on.

Fiona watched as he grew more and more frustrated as he sorted through the OMB reports earmarked for further investigation. She did not want to see him end the day by figuratively slashing someone's throat, which given his current attitude, could be just about anyone who got too close.

She needed something to do, but as someone whose only role was that of recently-freed asset, that meant she could watch, not do. So she watched Michael. She observed others working in the same area who avoided entering the area.

Jesse appeared about the time Raines and his wife were leaving. He collected Dani, made her sit in a wheelchair and left.

An hour later, Michael looked up and glanced at Fi. "We really need those DEA reports," he said. "I should have asked Pearce about that before Jesse took her."

She had been watching the time. Around the time she knew Jesse would need to return to his townhouse and get Dani settled in, she stood.

"Come on, Michael. We've got to go see a man about a place to live." She pulled the binder of data he'd been studying from his hands before putting it in the deepest desk drawer and pushing the locking mechanism. It was a small, easily bypassed security, but that wasn't her objective. Changing his focus was.

He glanced up at her but hadn't transitioned to the moment. "Fi? Huh?"

"Jesse has a place we can live. Let's go look at it."

Scowl, frown.

She turned and walked toward the door and was relieved to hear him following.

"Fi, we really need to stay. . ."

"To find a place to live," she said as the elevator door opened.

Once inside the elevator, she held her palm up. Michael filled it with her car keys. "The hotel is nice, but housekeeping has probably put ten listening devices in there while we've been gone. We need a new place."

That got his attention. His glance was laser focused. Now he was with her.

One of Jesse's many benefits of employment with SecuriCorp was living in the gated community which, at Jesse's level of employment, was considered a portion of remuneration. The complex served a two-fold purpose as living area for upper level employees and others, and as a sales environment for security systems to business and residential developers. New products and systems rotated frequently in and out of different sales environments, either in townhouse or apartment or meeting center.

Jesse was waiting at the entrance security house when Fiona pulled up, and cleared her vehicle for entrance.

He leaned down and pointed. "Park right next to my car. The townhouse is two over."

Fiona was familiar with the area. When Jesse returned to Miami post his self-imposed CIFA retirement, he'd asked for Fiona's help to select furnishings for his new townhouse. His signing bonus had more than covered the basics, and Jesse had seemed pleased with the results.

Entering the front door was no simple procedure. It required a key card, security code, a palm reader and a key. The sleek and modern environment wasn't as cozy as the house Anson had destroyed, but it was private, and difficult to access. Two large bonus features.

Jesse waited at the door while they took a quick tour. "If you're want it, we can get you both scanned in for security today. This one can have a three month lease if you're interested."

Fi found it very similar to Jesse's townhouse, but it was at a lower elevation, providing access to a garden as opposed to Jesse's spacious balcony. "I'm good with this," she said, looking to Michael who agreed.

"I had the furniture brought over, thinking you might be interested," Jesse offered. A table and chairs were in the dining area, a long couch sat in front of a fireplace Fi suspected would never be used, and a king sized bed occupied the master bedroom. "The designers are going to recycle these pieces, but none of it has been used for anything other than display."

"Yeah. This is really good," Michael said. "Thanks, Jess."

After gaining access and clearance to their new place, they had a quiet dinner at Carlito's, while Jesse returned to his townhouse to see to Pearce.

#

#

#

At least she'd waited until after dinner to tell him they had to go shopping again. They were almost to her car when she made the announcement.

"You're kidding."

"Not kidding."

"Do we have to?"

She laughed then. "I think I just heard what you must have sounded like as a child. Yes, we have to. We need sheets for the bed, towels, basic kitchen supplies. We'll have to do food sometime tomorrow when we can get back in, but we should do this tonight."

"No, we could-"

She depressed the keypad and unlocked the doors with a beep. They were standing on either side of her car, but she wouldn't stand and argue. She just climbed into the drivers' seat, shut the door and started the engine. He joined her then.

"Fi, I'm just . . . "

"Anxious? Worried? Frustrated? Angry? Michael, I'd go do this by myself, the same way you supplied all the things we had in the house Anson killed, but I know you won't let me. I'm trying to be a good spouse here."

He leaned across the seat to give her a kiss. "You were doing just fine there until you twisted the knife at the end."

"Did it work?" Fi could feign innocence better than most. She just removed expression and somehow made her eyes seem bigger and rounder . . . and darker.

"We're going back to where we were this morning?"

"You do bedding and towels and I'll do kitchenware or . . . "

"You're better at bedding and towels, and I'll do kitchen. Deal?"

"Deal. With two of us it'll go faster." And it did.

But by the time they entered the hotel for their last evening there, Fi could see Michael's GO button was still fully engaged. He was going through the motions but his mind was still on Anson and the investigation. Which was fine, but she was beginning to weary of the man's intrusion in their lives.

As they entered the room, Fi dug into her bag and then Michael's and tossed him shorts and a t-shirt before grabbing her own.

She opened her shoulder bag to show Michael the contents, then set one on each bed side table and turned them on. "Gift from Jesse." There was nothing quite like an audio scrambler to put a smile on her spy's face. He shook his head and pressed a small kiss to her lips before changing his clothing.

Two floors down, the hotel fitness center was nearly empty. The hour and a half they spent there provided results Fi expected. Michael had slowed down, and she felt tension ebb away. They returned to the room to take advantage of the large walk in shower together, a lovely, lovely activity, before retiring to the bed.

But sleep was elusive.

Their bodies were tired, but those newly produced exercise-induced endorphins from either the gym or the shower had clarified murky thought processes. At the moment, neither could stop thought linking to thought linking to thought.

She turned on her side, her face soft against his chest, her head under his chin. He wrapped an arm around her, and softly caressed her shoulder and arm as she used her fingers to climb up the stairs of his ribs and down again. He could feel her lashes brush against the sensitized skin on his chest; she could feel his lips on the top of her head.

And although they had yet to speak of it, they both sensed something was out of severely sync with Raines.

Fi kissed Michael's chest and remembered what she wanted to ask him earlier when they were shopping. "What did that old guy at the store say to you this morning?"

"He wanted to know if I was a cop, and when I told him no, he wanted to know why I was carrying. My shirt was up in the back, so my .45 wasn't fully covered, so I fixed it and told him I was FBI. He called me a liar, said he knew CIA when he saw it because he was a retired CIA auditor. Then he told me, if I was lucky, I'd get to keep you."

"You won't lose me."

They both understood that wasn't what Michael's unsolicited source of marital advice was talking about.

Fi raised her head, rested her palms on his chest then put her chin on her hands to look into his face. "I think Raines' wife . . . "

"I know."

"When he didn't have information he promised you days ago, I wondered about that then."

"Something else is going on. I don't know."

"Part of you wishes you were a solo operator now."

Her remark slammed into his chest, and he found himself inhaling sharply. "Apparently I can't hide anything from you. Yes," he said, placing kiss on her forehead, "part of me does."

Fiona wiggle-inched up Michael's body until her lips were a breath away from his. "You're going to have to adjust."

"I've been working on that, Mrs. Westen."

Fi closed her eyes. Calling her Mrs. Westen told her everything the heart of her hearts needed to hear at that moment.

She felt his smile against her lips, then wallowed in one more deliciously greedy kiss before he maneuvered her onto her back. While leaning on one arm above her, he created a slow torture of caresses, brushing over super sensitized skin, creating a disquieting frisson of need. He nuzzled her neck. "Mmm," he husked, kissing the soft, sweet spot under her ear before his lips moved and he began tasting every inch of her face, her neck, her breasts, her ribs, the sweet crevice of her naval.

The night was, indeed, very sweet.

#

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#

When the hotel room phone rang at 0600 Michael answered. "Yes, I'll be there."

He looked back to Fi, who was as alert as he was. "Raines said to come to his hotel room. He didn't say to come alone."

The presented themselves at the door 7 minutes later. His wife answered the door, and as they entered they saw a small pile of luggage.

"You're on your own here," he said. "At least for a while. I've been recalled to Langley by my director."

"How long will you be gone?" Michael wondered.

"I have no idea. My . . . friend at the FBI also has been called by his director. Apparently they are concerned about our inability to cooperate on issues of national security, Anson Fullerton, among other things. You're running your unit, and go easy on Pearce; she's on medical leave and shouldn't be doing anything. I'll call for updates when I'm able." He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. "Good luck, Westen." He nodded to Fiona. "Mrs. Westen."

#

#

#

The flight was commercial not military, and Raines was thankful for that small convenience.

He was also very thankful he was able to upgrade his seating arrangement for his wife's comfort; unfortunately, the new seats put them right across the aisle from his former partner. Briefly, they acknowledged one another.

Raines noticed in the window seat next to him was a slender, exotic-looking woman holding a small girl on her lap. It took both Raines and his wife only a few seconds to realize the woman and child were his wife and daughter. When the little girl climbed into his lap, demanding his attention, earning her father's open arms, doubt was eliminated.

Then it made sense to Raines.

The woman and child were his anchors, the reasons he had been able to live the dichotomy his career had become, the reason he could continue the continual discord necessary to protect them all by taking it upon himself. If he had not had the woman and child, Raines suspected none of them would be here now.

He knew he must have been successfully hiding them from Anson. But if Anson had become aware of their existence, then it could be devastating. Perhaps his situation had changed; perhaps Anson knew. Perhaps this trip was more about personal over mission, than a disagreement between cooperative agencies.

Raines glanced at the little girl; she was a beautiful child. Raines could not imagine life without his sons and his wife . . . without his wife. He closed his eyes and reached for her hand. He glanced across the aisle again, he saw his former partner watching him. With his child's head nestled under his neck, he held her gently. On his left, his wife rested against his shoulder.

He didn't have a free hand or Raines would have extended his. Instead, he smiled.

"Looking forward to the trip?" Raines asked.

"I am."

There would be time, Raines hoped, to thank him for all he had done, knowing it would never be adequate in comparison to the gift he had given him.

#

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#

_If you focus on the money and arms, you might find a way out of this._

_If you focus on the money and arms._

Despite everything intelligence agencies knew about terrorists and how they operated, there was no adequate way to profile a terrorist, and the work had been going on since the 1990s. Pearce explained the basics to Michael from the lounging position she occupied on Jesse's couch. Her hope was between what they'd gleaned from the OMB materials and what they could now find that had been restored on the network, they could profile Anson and locate him that way.

"I know that's important," Michael said, "but I think we're going the wrong direction on that. We're missing a lot of information Raines was working on when he was called back to D.C. The ID of the guy Jesse shot who nearly killed you. Recordings of what Larry and Vaughn have been discussing since they're next to each other and have a common enemy."

"Common enemy?" Pearce asked.

"Michael," Fiona filled in. She was sitting on the opposite end of the couch, her legs tucked under her, her hands cupped around a coffee mug Jesse had just delivered, listening to Michael protecting Raines.

Sam sat at the table and sipped at the coffee, but it wasn't his morning beverage of choice. "Yeah, and we need those first reports on what was used to blow up your house. I'll check in on that. Shame, too, since you guys never got to have a house warming party."

Jesse and Michael exchanged a glance. Apparently they were working in tandem without the other's knowledge.

"We need that DEA report," Jesse said.

Michael agreed. "Yesterday."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

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"Westen briefed us after your meeting last week," Raines said.

"I assumed he would."

"Are your wife and daughter being threatened?"

"Yes."

"Recently?"

"Always, but since Glen . . . Mrs. Westen put his lights out," he said with faint humor, "it's escalated."

"Is that why you're coming in now?" Raines wanted to know.

"I saw Westen and his wife and realized that if they could break Anson's hold, even with the pressure we were exerting to complicate that, I had to try."

"If Mrs. Westen hadn't done what she did, this would be a different conversation."

"I'd still be Anson Fullerton's puppet."

Raines shrugged. "A saboteur puppet. Thank you for what you've done for all of us, my family especially. And for Axe, too."

His friend of long ago laughed then. "Axe didn't like it."

Raines smiled. "No, he didn't."

The inner door opened and an assistant looked out. "Your directors are ready to see you now."

#

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"Pearce? Are you okay in there?" Jesse called from outside the master bath door.

"I'm fine. Go away."

The sound of something breaking that was heavy and glass echoed through the wall to the living area on the opposite side of the master bathroom.

"It sounded like glass breaking from the other room. Are you okay?"

When he didn't get a reply to that, he opened the door a crack. "Are you decent? Can I come in?"

He paused. "Pearce? You okay?" he asked again.

When he didn't get a reply he opened the door a bit more.

"Dani?"

Her continued lack of response made him open the door the rest of the way to see her standing there, wrapped in a white towel, her dark hair wet and tangled around her shoulders. The bandages on her shoulder were wet, too, and on the stone tile floor, broken shards of glass splat-clustered together. Amber liquid filled the room with a thick, musky sweet scent.

She was rubbing tears from her eyes with one hand, holding the towel together with the other. Her bare feet were trapped between splinters and chunks of glass. He stepped inside, stepped around the mess, lifted her up and sat her on the counter.

"Bet that was your favorite stuff, too," he said, avoiding her gaze while evaluating the extent of the glass perfume bottle bomb on the bathroom floor. That's when he saw her foot was bleeding. He reached for it, encircled it with his hand and pulled out a slender splinter of glass that had embedded itself near the ball of her foot, allowing the wound to bleed freely. Then he checked her other foot to see if she had a second injury.

He opened a deep drawer, grabbed a peroxide bottle then a small facial terry cloth, doused it with the disinfectant, and wrapped it around her wounded foot.

He put a finger up. "Just stay there."

With efficiency perfected as a college student who worked nights as a janitor, he retrieved his basic cleaning implements and had the mess cleaned up and the floor free of glass within minutes. Dani clutched her towel with her good arm and sat in humble and humiliating silence on the narrow counter between double sinks.

When he finished with the floor, he focused first on the wet bandages on the front and back of her shoulder by gently removing them. The incisions looked to be healing well, but to see her skin damaged like that had him holding his breath. He washed his hands then opened a drawer and pulled out basic medical supplies, an antibiotic salve and large, soft wound covering bandages.

When he was finished with the front and back of her shoulder and her foot, he put the supplies away and finally, when he felt able, looked into her face. Her eyes were still damp.

"I was just going to move it," she said. "I didn't mean to drop it."

"You lost the use of your dominant arm. You're healing. It's okay."

He avoided her gaze then knelt down to look at her foot. Satisfied the wound was clean, he tossed the cloth into the sink and a moment later, her foot had an antibiotic bandage applied to it.

She watched as he lifted the drain lever and poured a liberal amount of peroxide over the blood stained cloth he'd wrapped around her foot. "What are you doing that for?"

"One of my foster moms worked in a hospital lab. That's how she kept blood stains from setting when she laundered her uniforms."

Jesse could have bit his tongue. Except for Maddie, he usually gave himself a lot longer with someone before he shared anything personal. But it was too late, and Dani was so distressed by the situation in the bathroom, maybe she wouldn't remember.

He took a deep breath. "Let's get you down."

But when he reached to hold her waist and gently let her down on her feet, the pain in her foot made her wince, and she lost purchase on the towel she'd been holding as she stood. She couldn't reach for it fast enough, unintentionally baring one of her breasts. Blue eyes flashed to brown.

Then time inched forward as he looked down and cautiously picked up the end of the towel and brought it up, covering her, so she could hold it again. His eyes returned to hers. When he spoke, his voice was husky and thick. "Beautiful."

Then, something truly exquisite transpired, an exchange with the power to transform.

With his hands gently cupping her bare shoulders, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers. And Dani Pearce returned that kiss with everything she had hidden, buried and forgotten. She tasted every bit of Jesse Porter she could, and felt stunningly dizzy and deeply affected by her hunger for this delicious man. She wanted more, so much more. She was thankful Jesse's arms remained wrapped around her, enfolding her and keeping her upright because if they hadn't been, the heat of his body would have melted her into a very large puddle. And she had been cold for a very long time.

Slowly he pulled away from her, releasing his embrace, extending his arms, then carefully dropping his hands to his side. He took a step back, then another. She leaned against the back of the counter and felt her entire body burst into flames of embarrassment.

"You," he said softly, locking his eyes to hers, "are dangerous." And then he left, quietly closing the door behind himself.

She stared at the door and swallowed the lump in her throat. "And so are you," she whispered.

Jesse left the bathroom, left the bedroom and walked into his living area, shaking his head. Another thirty seconds and . . . no. He could not allow his mind to go there, no matter what his body wanted to tell him.

He'd learned self control with the opposite sex years and years ago as a teenager. He needed . . . he needed . . . something. He needed distraction. He needed his damned phone to ring. He thanked God and whatever stray angel was soaring over when it did, then pulled his battered St. Christopher's medal from beneath his shirt and kissed it.

He glanced at the phone. Saved by Sam Axe. And not for the first time.

"Jess, will you just come down here and let me in? Mikey and Fi aren't answering their phones. Glad one of you has his mind on something other than . . . oh, hell. Just come and let me into Fort Knox."

"Yeah, Sam, just hold on."

Jesse looked back over his shoulder to the bedroom door and debated telling her where he was going but didn't want to risk seeing her again when the only thing between them was a damp towel. As he left his townhouse, locked the door and walked across to the main entrance to allow Sam admittance.

He'd been talking to himself for years. "You are out of your ever-lovin' mind, Porter, or else you've lost it. Damn."

But it wouldn't matter.

None of the images of Dani Pearce that had embedded themselves in his mind's eye could be banished. Not the one where he felt the warmth of her blood cover his chest and mingle with his, not the one in the ambulance where her skin looked grey, or the one in the ER where it looked like she might die despite the number of medical personnel who surrounded her, working on her body . . . and not the ones where she was embarrassed or had tears in her eyes. And now this beautiful new one. "Out of your mind, Porter. You are just out of your friggin' mind."

He opened the security house door and indicated to the guard that Sam Axe needed clearance to enter the complex, and used his code to verify the authority to do so. The guard opened the gate and Sam drove in and parked his new insurance-replaced Caddy next to Jesse's insurance-replaced Porsche.

Jesse was feeling almost in charge of himself again by the time he walked to where Sam was getting out of his car with a stack of files. "Got some good stuff, Jess. Grab Pearce and come on over to Mike and Fi's. Maybe they'll be decent by the time you get there."

#

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#

The meeting at Michael and Fiona's new townhouse had been planned earlier in the day when Raines called on a secure line to report the events in D.C. Sam had been pulling information from the MDFR arson investigators, and Jesse had been talking to the DEA. They agreed to meet at Michael and Fi's new place in Jesse's complex around dinner time.

Fiona's morning began with a shopping trip to a grocery store with Michael, who actually seemed to enjoy selecting food and coffee and things they'd would keep in their new refrigerator. By the time they returned, though, she begged off spending another day waiting for him at the office.

"The sheets and towels need to be washed first, and seriously, Michael, do you really think Anson is going to break in here? I should more worried about you."

When he kissed her good-bye, she wondered if this was something normal people did every day? What was the difference between normal people and doing something normal and them doing something . . . normal? Besides firearms and the chemistry of explosives?

What she enjoyed, though, was taking the sterile townhouse they visited yesterday and using plants and the things they'd purchased during their shopping trip last night and this morning to make the townhouse feel like a home. By the time she heard Michael's keycard beep and the front door unlock, she had wallowed in a day of domestic tasks she could never have imagined doing two months ago. Or imagined wanting to do two years ago.

He stepped inside, and looked around. Outside, the sun was shining but inside, the blinds had been turned to block light and the room was dark.

"Something smells good," he said as he walked over to her, tossed the keys on the table and took her in his arms.

"Dinner is staying warm in the oven."

"Mmmhmmm." After his lips left hers they traveled all over her face leaving kiss after kiss after kiss. "I've been thinking about this all afternoon."

She smiled. That surprised her.

"And privacy, Fi. No one listening in."

"Or seeing in," she said huskily against his throat while she methodically worked to unbutton his shirt.

"We have time." He pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it aside.

"Yesssss."

And they did. Have time. And each other. And then, in the shower, they had each other again.

"You know what this leads to?" Michael asked as he used his towel to dry her back.

She turned with her towel to dry his front. "Pregnancy?" she said dryly.

He tossed his towel aside, took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes. "Happiness."

And then he kissed her once more. In a nanosecond, she learned that single word had the power to break her heart, heal it and enlarge it.

#

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#

Fiona opened the door to a scowling Sam. He took one look at her and shook his head.

"You two need to get off this honeymoon thing you got going and get back to answering your phones."

She shut the door behind him. "You called? When did you call?" She walked over and picked up her phone which she'd left on the counter. Three missed calls, all from Sam.

"Sorry about that," she said, as she retrieved a beer from the refrigerator and removed the cap before she turned around to hand it to him.

There was an amused expression on his face when she turned around. He was holding her tank top, the one Michael had so recently removed from her, by one finger. She held out the beer then swiped the top from him.

"Newlyweds," he grumbled. "So where's Mikey?"''

"Behind you," Michael said. "So what did you find out?"

Fiona grinned at Michael as she went past him with the tank top.

Sam set his bottle on the table and opened a file. "Matches up with what Anson had in the Tampa warehouse. I have no idea how that's going to affect that woman's home insurance. Seems like the insurance company won't believe a private home would be a terrorist target. They keep trying to convince the investigator it was a gas line explosion so they won't have to pay for a new house."

"An MDFR investigator told you that?"

"Who is an old SEAL buddy."

"What else did you find?"

"Well, that's complicated. We need to hear from Jesse first."

"After dinner then," Fiona said, bringing a stack of plates and cutlery and napkins to the table.

"Dinner?" Sam teased. "You, Fiona Glenanne Westen, have cooked me dinner?"

"Well, not just you, Sam. It's for Michael and Jesse and Dani, too."

"You made it?" Sam asked. "All by yourself?"

"Yes, all by myself," she said dryly.

"Fiona Glenanne Westen cooks?" he shook his head. "This is something I could never imagine."

Michael went to let Jesse and Pearce in after he knocked.

"Jess, did you know Fi can cook?" Sam turned to ask.

"Yeah, she's pretty good at it, too," Jesse said.

"How would you know?"

"She used to fix dinner for me when Mike was first back with Raines."

"At the loft? Where was I?" Sam wondered. "I missed that?"

"Let's see . . . at that time, I think her name was Diana."

Fiona glanced over to see Michael pull out a chair and help Dani get out of the wheelchair so she could sit at the table. "I'm not an invalid, Michael."

"I know. You're healing," he said.

"Oh, yeah. Diana," Sam mused. "She was special."

Jesse set the table while Michael helped Fiona bring the food and opened the wine. Chicken, wild rice with a fresh tossed salad and conversation among friends. For a long moment in time, the worries of their work were suspended. With Sam and Jesse patting their stomachs after the meal, Fiona cautioned them to save a little room for dessert. Michael helped her clear the table and returned the dishes to the kitchen as Fiona pulled out her dessert.

Michael looked over her shoulder then stopped. "Is that . . . amber apple?"

She turned and smiled up at him. "I was thinking of you this afternoon, too."

Without regard to those behind them, he leaned down to kiss her, closing his eyes in remembrance, sheltering her with his body. The first meal they ever shared in Ireland was one she made for him, and the custardy apple concoction with meringue had been a treat she'd made specially for him, then worried he might not like it. An hour after that dinner in her flat, they made love for the first time, and nothing had ever been the same for either of them since that moment.

It was Michael, not Fiona who had trouble regaining composure in the moment that followed. He rested both palms against the counter top as she picked up the pie, turned around and smiled at her guests who where each showing signs of discomfort.

"Mum always said," she said, pulling out her Irish, "there's nuthin' better'n a wee bit o' sweet at the end of a meal."

She set the simple dessert down on the table. "It's an Irish apple pie."

Dani rescued the moment with the mundane. "Really? With meringue? Is this a family recipe?"

By the time Fi was halfway through her explanation, Michael rejoined her with the stack of dessert plates and forks, and everyone pretended the deeply emotional exchange they'd just witnessed between their host and hostess didn't happen.

It wasn't until an hour later, when Jesse and Sam were drawing the same conclusions about the DEA's interests in Anson's operation that Fiona looked over and met Michael's gaze.

And now she understood what he'd not yet told her today. He was leaving.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

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When the evening ended, Dani was exhausted.

Jesse's constant presence by her side was as unsettling and as confusing as were his questions about why she'd saved his life. At least he'd stopped asking that. She didn't want to think it had been something as simple as she'd made him laugh once. She could never remember making any man laugh, not even Janssen. Yet the image of Jesse laughing at something she'd said refused to go away.

She felt light-headed. She could attribute that to the pain meds she was taking, or to the lingering memory of that word Jesse used or . . . two perfect kisses. Or maybe it was that moment they all witnessed.

After seeing Michael's reaction to the dessert Fiona made, Dani briefly lost control of her emotional equilibrium. Whatever that meant to them was something important.

They were standing at the counter, facing away from the table. They spoke quietly. Then he moved his arm around her and rested it on the counter, encompassing her, as he dropped his head to kiss her. Dani had held her breath, then the three of them who watched looked away, realizing they were privy to an unplanned, unexpected and extremely personal moment between a husband and a wife, something beyond waiting for an appropriate moment.

The first time she had encountered such intimacy between them had been purely by accident. This, tonight, was different because the resurgence of remembered pain she'd previously encountered had been irrevocably banished, somehow, by the man sitting next to her.

When Fiona brought the dessert to the table, Dani discovered she retained the presence of mind necessary to provide the breathing space they all needed. She could also see the moment had caught Sam off guard, because she'd seen the expression he'd hidden as he looked down to his hands.

The conversational balm of discussing an old Irish family recipe brought each of them back to center. Then, the reason for their meeting took precedence as Sam and Jesse explained what they had come to understand was the DEA's interest in Anson's operations.

By the time Michael added what he'd learned from listening to the tapes of Sizemore and Vaughn's conversations, it was very late or very early.

Using the wheelchair was annoying, but she admitted her need for it. She was supremely frustrated with the weakness in her arm and the loss of energy and strength. It was a struggle to do anything simple, from putting on a bra or a blouse, pulling up slacks, or anything else for that matter. She knew she'd need physical therapy and she wasn't comfortable asking for Jesse's help, but she wanted to.

Jesse wheeled her into his townhouse, locked the door, then pushed the wheelchair through the living area to the bedroom. He locked the wheels so she could push herself up with her good arm. But tonight, she didn't have the strength to do more than get about halfway up before sitting back down with a thump. He didn't give her a chance to try again. He just did what he'd done before and lifted her into his arms and carried her over to sit on the bed.

"I wish you'd stop doing this."

"You're healing. You need help."

She closed her eyes and felt tears seep out. Again. She was frustrated and her heart felt heavy when he touched her face and brushed her tears away. She couldn't decide if it was his kindness or his constancy that was affecting her so deeply.

A moment later, he pulled off her shoes, dropped them on the floor, resettled her on the bed and reached for the afghan. He clasped her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He would have pulled away but she held his hand just a moment longer. A moment long enough to communicate her need for his comfort.

He turned off the light beside the bed, then left the room to turn off the light in the living area. A few minutes later, she felt the mattress depress as he joined her on the bed. He gently positioned her head on his shoulder with her good shoulder next to his chest, protecting the wounded side of her body. His arm lay over hers, his hand rested on hers.

When she felt him kiss her forehead, she realized it was a familiar sensation. He didn't say a thing, not a word. Neither did she. But that night, without request, she was given the flawless gift of being able to sleep in his arms. It was the most perfect, protected place she had ever been.

And Jesse, with his arms gently wrapped around the thin frame of this fragile, healing woman who had saved his life before taking up residence in his subliminal thought processes, calmed the inner voice that kept telling him he'd lost his mind.

They slept, fully clothed, in his bed, neither understanding the restorative power this night would have for the other's need to rest.

#

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#

"When did he call?" Fi asked as soon as Michael closed the door after Jesse helped Dani get situated in the wheelchair and pushed her toward his townhouse. Sam had left earlier.

She finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher, added detergent and closed the door to start the wash cycle.

"After our showers. You left to answer the door when Sam got here. Raines called and told me to report in person tomorrow. I'm supposed to meet with him, his friend and their directors at the DEA. I didn't say anything to Jess and Sam because it's . . . "

Fiona turned and studied him. "It's classified."

"Yeah."

She just realized her husband had broken a fundamental rule of clandestine operations. With her. Sam and Jesse were not being informed. She was. And yet he was behaving as if this was normal. Usual. It wasn't. Fiona was stunned by the gift of trust he had just given her.

"When do you leave?"

Michael straightened the chairs at the table and braced his arms against the back of one, studying the tiled top of the table. "0400. Anytime you mix arms with the DEA . . . "

Fiona shuddered. "Drugs, Michael. Anson is bad enough, but nothing connected to drugs can be good."

"I know."

That night, as they slept in each other's arms, the only thing that came between them was the arrival of a tiny tendril of fear.

Michael's internal alarm sounded much too early. Instead of silently leaving while she slept, something he had done too many times before, he kissed Fiona to wakefulness. When she was in prison, before he knew there would be a way out, he'd bargained with God, that if she returned to him, he'd never leave her like that again.

#

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Michael was not the sole passenger on the small private jet bound for Dulles.

A woman was already on board, dressed very much as he was in a grey suit appropriate for meeting the director of the agency that employed her. He'd almost forgotten what a beautiful woman she was. He smiled at her and said hello at the same time she did, but said nothing more after she silently cautioned him. They were being observed. She reached and squeezed his hand, then, curious, she turned it over and saw his wedding ring. She smiled again.

She returned to her seat, closed her eyes and napped.

Michael looked out the window. By the time they landed, he'd worked out a fairly plausible theory about who would be waiting, who would be involved, and some of his conjecture was confirmed when they were met and escorted to the DEA's Chantilly facility: Special Operations.

Michael's first meeting of the day included both the CIA and FBI directors and Raines and his FBI counterpart. Despite the collaborative tone, he had the clear impression he was being evaluated in the flesh, not the file. Their location could be considered neutral, but that seemed to simple an answer.

As the meeting progressed, he accounted for the twitch between his shoulders, the positive indicator that he had been thoroughly dissected and reassembled before the meeting had been called. He glanced at Raines' former partner, checked his deadpan expression and realized he'd recently had the a similar experience.

The directors left, apparently satisfied with what they'd seen.

Raines' former partner left.

Michael found himself wondering if he was being protected or incarcerated. Did the FBI work that differently with compromised personnel than the CIA?

Now only he and Raines remained in the conference room.

"We're waiting because?" Michael asked.

"The DEA has some trust issues with us," Raines replied.

Michael's laugh held a tinge of sarcasm. "You jest."

In regard to the DEA, the CIA had always operated on the theory that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, and if that meant helping supply a cartel with drugs or providing support for a drug dealer, that's what they did, if it meant gaining the intel they wanted. The results left the DEA with the logical and reasonable conclusion that the CIA worked against them. It was impossible to argue with historical fact. And, it did not create an atmosphere of trust.

The door opened and Michael's travel companion entered the room. Raines provided the formal introduction.

"Sophia Valdez, this is Michael Westen. I believe the two of you traveled together this morning."

She reached for his hand. "Yes, we did. Mr. Westen."

"Ms. Valdez."

"Like you," Raines said, "Ms. Valdez is stationed in Miami. Through an interagency agreement, you and Ms. Valdez will be operating as business associates looking for property to purchase in the Dominican Republic."

"Because?" Michael wondered.

Sophia supplied the answer. "Because the Sinaloa cartel is in the process of establishing a Caribbean trafficking route to Venezuela and Columbia, and they're using resources supplied by a black ops group you've been trying to take down. It's the group that's recently rebuilt its structure. We understand you were instrumental in taking down half of it a year ago; now we need your help on taking down this half. We have requested your assistance and that of your team," Sophia explained. "And your director has granted it."

Raines nodded. "DEA has the lead. We're providing support along with the FBI. Our directors have tasked us with making inter-agency cooperation something we can each can take pride in.

"The Sinaloa cartel." Michael felt his jaw clench. "The most powerful organized crime and drug trafficking organization in the world. That's perfect. Makes Anson look like a puppy dog."

"We don't give in to fear," Sophia added. "That's what my director says."

Michael held her gaze, and knew they needed a private conversation. He had made Sophia's acquaintance four years ago, when she asked for his help to get rid of a stalker, a stalker who was the number two in the Valdez organization at that time.

She'd been working undercover as a restaurant hostess for two years, building a case against Campos who ran the Miami operation, but her stalker's obsession with her was verging on a life or death situation, and she didn't have the normal avenues of assistance open to her without risking being pulled from the case she'd spent so long building.

A recently burned spy with a reputation for taking on the cartel was just who she needed. She'd tried to keep her true identity secret from him, but it didn't work. The successful plea she used for his help was that she'd been operating all alone.

To remove Raul, her stalker, they created a problem with his boss for him; Fiona had provided tactical support as a sniper and bomb maker, while Sam and Sophia created the perfect setup to remove him from Campos' office. To save himself, Raul turned on the organization and admitted guilt in exchange for lifetime protection within the penal system from cartel members.

Sophia had thanked Michael and they had agreed it was in each of their best interests to keep their relationship secret. And it had been. Until today.

They'd need to deal with this first. If she had feared a stalker, how would she deal with the Sinaloa cartel?

He hoped her director was right. That they did not give into fear. But sometimes, moving the opposite direction and living another day was a fair exchange for that.

Unaware of their prior relationship, Raines continued. "You're in the middle of a perfect storm, Westen. Between the new information supplied by the FBI, the trail of evidence Pearce's OMB insider threat reports uncovered, the restored information in the network concerning one of the principals of the group, the intel from Miami DEA sources on the arms facilities in Tampa and the one Pearce and Porter investigated, Sizemore and Vaughn's intel, we have everything we need to take them down."

"No, we don't. You've forgotten we don't have eyes on either Anson or Management at this time," Michael reminded him.

"We do," Sophia interjected.

Michael's gaze laser focused on Sophia. "Where?"

"Florida City, not far from Homestead," she said.

"We need to get him now."

Sophia looked down. "We are."

Raines broke in. "We've loaned Peterbaugh and Carnahan to the DEA; they're on site now."

So this was what cooperation looked like, he thought. His team members were reassigned without consultation or discussion. Sophia read Michael's appraisal of the situation accurately and looked away.

"Yeah, Raines," Michael agreed. "It is a perfect storm. But you can die on one of those."

#

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#

"Thank you."

"For?"

"Not blowing my cover. Telling them about the problem you fixed for me."

They were back at the airport, sitting in a small private lounge, waiting for the private jet that would take them back to Miami.

Michael scanned the waiting area. "You're welcome."

"We need to talk."

"Yes. But in Miami. Someplace secure."

"Yes."

"You're married now. I can't remember her name. Is she the woman who built the bomb and was your tactical support?"

"Yes."

When he didn't say more, she pressed on. "I know what you're thinking. That if I couldn't handle a stalker, how will I deal with anyone from the Sinaloa cartel?" her voice was almost a whisper now. "But I can. I can."

"Those people are serious, Sophia. Dangerous."

"I know. They almost killed my husband."

Michael turned and looked at her. "Is that your motivation?"

"Part of it."

"And the other part?"

"Drugs kill people."

He looked at her without expression. There was more to it than that. He'd stake his life on that. And, maybe, he had.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

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It would be an understatement to say Fiona was not fond of alphabet soup organizations: CIA, FBI, ATF, INS, DHS, USCIS, DOJ.

In her experience, the abbreviated agencies didn't like her, although she was rethinking her long held grudge against the CIA since they'd given her a Lawful Permanent Resident card, had kept Interpol and SIS in the fog, and provided their protection by claiming her as an asset. And, of course, they had returned Michael to his job. It was not exactly the job he'd had, but he was back with the CIA and, for now, that seemed to satisfy him.

She wondered how long that would last.

He changed, day by day, little by little. Good became better. Better verged on perfect. Their marriage was too new to risk asking that question out loud. So, for now, she was luxuriating in this lovely, private bit of heaven, even though old troubles persisted and connected themselves with new troubles.

Keeping her distance from the abbreviations was a choice, but the one she consistently distanced herself from was the DEA. Unfortunately, in Miami, that had been nearly impossible to do with regularity.

This was the primary reason she wasn't pleased to be waiting for Michael's arrival at a DEA airfield.

The city was home to the largest of the Drug Enforcement Administration's domestic field divisions. If you looked, you could hardly turn a corner in Florida without bumping into a drug user, drug seller, drug buyer or a DEA agent who wanted to arrest them or anyone along their supply chain. If you didn't look for it, you were happy with the climate, the relative proximity to a beach and a kind of laid back lifestyle hot, humid climates encouraged.

Fiona would have been happy with oblivion, but it was impossible. In the last five years she, Michael and Sam had certainly run enough operations that involved dealers, sellers and buyers. Drugs were the ugly, ugly fabric of Miami's criminal life, and she didn't like ugly things.

When Michael called to let her know when he'd be back his voice was calm but she could hear frustration. The knowledge that he had been at the DEA's Special Operations unit gave her the chills. She couldn't think anything good that could come from that, but he was focused on his objective of sending Anson and Management to Guantanamo.

Raines' call had been oddly timed, she thought. Perhaps they'd all overlooked the obvious because, with the exception of Anson's money trail, almost every lead they'd followed somehow, in some way linked to the DEA.

When Anson's warehouse in Tampa blew up, Tampa cops took jurisdiction on that one. If the DEA was standing in line there, they didn't know it.

But the DEA was at the front of the line when Jesse and Dani surprised a guard at the arms storage facility and abandoned trucking terminal they found near Florida City when Dani was severely injured. The guard Jesse killed had been under DEA surveillance even though he was on a most wanted list for a cocaine distribution conspiracy.

They didn't find drugs; instead they found tractor trailers full of arms waiting for shipment. A trucking company and arms storage warehouse was a perfectly deadly combination and attractant for the DEA.

The conversations Raines had recorded between Larry Who Should be Dead and Vaughn Anderson strongly indicated a cartel connection, at least when it came to arms sales. They'd also learned Larry had become a user, likely because of the burn injuries he suffered when Fiona tried to kill him at the British consulate.

He'd been shackled to a prison hospital bed for several weeks for detox before being moved to a cell adjoining Vaughn.

Fiona had not taken part of the team discussion the previous evening.

Instead, she'd sat quietly to one side, listening to Michael, Sam, Jesse and Dani evaluating and speculating about the information they'd gathered, so much of which continued to lead back to the DEA's investigations. The longer they discussed it, the darker the picture grew of the task before them.

That sensation hadn't abated by the time she and Michael had gone to bed, nor when, early this morning, she had driven him to the same private airport she was waiting for him to return to now.

Only this afternoon, she wasn't the only person waiting.

She guessed he was DEA.

He wore jeans and a black t-shirt; his body language said he could be dangerous, and his eyes were hidden behind dark grey sunglasses.

He'd glanced at her when she arrived, and had gone back to watching the sky. Fiona kept her distance but relaxed when she realized despite his height and heavily muscled body, he was injured. He was strongly favoring his left leg. His hair was long, sleeked back and tied at the nape of his neck with a leather strap.

She shivered; he bore a slight resemblance to Armand, and perhaps it was that similarity that had her keeping her distance and vigilance. Or it was the small bulge of the concealed carry holster at his side under his t-shirt. She was armed as well, but not as obviously.

She saw the jet before she heard it and watched a dark silver-grey dart zip across the upper horizon before it slowed, swung wide then came in to land before rolling to a stop on the tarmac just a short distance away.

Moments later, Michael and a woman Fiona recognized from an operation they had done several years ago walked toward her as the man near her raised his sunglasses and smiled at her.

Michael reached for Fi and introduced her to Sophia again. The man who'd been waiting now had his arm around Sophia.

"I remember," Fi said. "Good to see you again."

"My husband," Sophia said to Fi, then Michael.

He extended his hand, shook Michael's hand. "Westen." Then he nodded to Fi.

The smile on his face for his wife brought an incredible change to him, from a paramilitary operator to be kept at a distance to handsome, friendly man, but his expression turned somber quickly as he shook Michael's hand.

"Good to meet you," Michael said.

"You'll be undercover with Sophia, right?"

"Yes," Michael said, looking down to Fiona. "I just learned that a couple hours ago." He turned to look at Sophia. "Do you want to talk now or later?"

She glanced at her husband and then Fiona. "Sooner would be better, don't you think?"

Michael looked down to Fi. "Is Sam at the loft?"

She nodded and jangled her car keys. "Then follow us."

In the car on the way to the loft, Michael summarized his meetings with the DEA, Raines and the FBI for her. When he was done, he turned and saw her tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in agitation.

"The DEA and the CIA working together? It sounds like a . . ."

"Yeah, it does."

"Oh, Michael. This is not good. When will you know if they got Anson?" she wondered.

"When Sophia checks in. But if they miss him, and I bet they will, we'll need to rely on what Peterbaugh and Carnahan have to report."

"I can't imagine this situation made them happy."

"I'm sure it didn't. Raines has bounced them around like ping pong balls."

All was silent for a few moments when Fiona voiced what Michael had been thinking.

"So . . . if Anson was running a guy at the FBI for a decade why wouldn't he have someone like that at the DEA?"

She pulled in front of the gate at the loft and stopped, and holding the door handle before he got out to open the gate, Michael frowned.

"That, Mrs. Westen, is a very good question."

#

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They'd been booked in hotel rooms adjacent to each which could be when the adjoining doors were unlocked from both suites. Raines had not been aware his former partner and his family had the room next to his until he returned from the meeting with Michael and Sophia and discovered his partner returning to the room with bags with the hotel's gift shop label splashed across them.

"So who booked your room?" he'd asked.

His FBI counterpart shook his head. "There could be worse places to stay."

Scowling, Raines agreed. Michael Westen wasn't the only operative who could be annoyed by agency methodology.

"We should talk," his former partner said.

Raines nodded. "Inside."

And that was precisely the reason some genius at either the CIA or FBI had given them connecting rooms.

Introductions of a more complete variety were made, and the social from the professional naturally divided. Raines and his former partner sat at one end of the suite, the women at the other end of the room.

But before they did that, Raines' wife, who was one of the most untrusting women either man had ever known, swept the room using items easily overlooked by airport security systems. Items she'd designed to be overlooked.

Her iPod case also contained a multichannel RF detector; a credit card was embedded with a wireless camera detector, and a large mascara tube and a tube of lip gel encased pen-sized audio scramblers. After her marriage to Raines and their sons were born, she'd returned to her first love, before she'd been recruited by the CIA, working with companies that developed such items. She no longer kept her family secure only by means of a weapon, though she could and would; instead she chose to keep them hidden from prying eyes and ears.

Raines' former partner had watched after they opened the doors between the rooms and she waved a finger, showing him every item in her possession, as she proceeded to sweep their rooms. She located a camera in each room and several listening devices. The cameras were quickly blocked, and the small detectors were switched to work as powerful audio scramblers while she retrieved the other devices and inserted them in a small copper lined travel jewelry box.

"There," she said at last. "Now we can all talk freely."

And they did. She learned her former fiancé's wife knew of her existence, understood what he'd been doing for a decade and also knew about her sons and her battle with cancer. She learned they'd met in Egypt years earlier when she'd been a intern and he'd been a patient recovering from severe injuries from an auto accident that likely wasn't an accident.

They had married, quietly and privately, before she came to the United States to practice in a D.C. area hospital. One by one, she had brought her family to the United States, persecuted Coptic Catholics. When their daughter was born four years ago, her family members sheltered her and her child, found ways to communicate with her husband or allow him to see them. But, as far her employer knew, she was an unmarried parent, while the FBI had never been informed of her existence until last week when her husband surrendered himself to his superior officer.

Now, she hoped her husband had made the right decision by coming forth and telling the FBI, and consequently the CIA about Anson Fullerton. She could return to work; her husband could not at this time.

Across the room, Raines was listening to the same story while his former partner's daughter crawled into his lap, rested her head on his chest, and had promptly fallen asleep.

"So that's it for now. This is house arrest, and then we'll be moved, and that's all I know except for what we discussed in the meeting this morning. I hope Westen is up for this."

Raines looked out across the room. "I can't help but think I'm sending a gladiator into the arena with all the lions in Africa."

"Westen has survived worse."

"We'll need to protect his wife now."

"Are you headed back to Miami?"

"No," Raines said. "I'm supposed to run the operation on our side from here."

"Whose idea was that?"

"The DEA."

#

#

#

"Yes, we used to live here," Michael explained to Sophia. "But we had a problem with uninvited guests, so we got rid of them and now we just use this as a work place. Sam stays here now. Looks like he's out."

He removed his jacket, hung it on the back of tall stool, and removed his tie before he started rolling up his shirt sleeves in deference to the late afternoon heat. Fiona opened the doors to the deck to let in air while Michael continued explaining. "All the surveillance equipment is gone now, so we can talk here in private."

"Always an advantage," Sophia replied.

Sophia's husband took a seat in Michael's favorite green chair. He hadn't mentioned his injury, even though Fiona was aware of it, but by the time he got to the top of the stairs, he was pale and both Sophia and Fi tried not to seem too concerned.

Fiona had asked him how he was injured before he began the stair climb. "Firefight," he explained.

"What do you do?" Fi asked, then followed up by asking him if he needed something to drink. She retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and brought it over to him.

She should have expected his answer. "DEA field agent."

"This injury is just taking longer to heal than some of his others," Sophia filled in.

"Depends on how many times you've been shot in the same spot, I suppose," Fiona said.

Sophia agreed. "Exactly."

"That's a good starting place," Michael said, turning to face her. "Exactly how are you planning to deal with anyone in the Sinaloa cartel if you needed our help to deal with a drug cartel lieutenant? The cartel doesn't just carry MAC-10s, they . . . "

When the door opened and Sam entered, the welcoming smile on his face slid off when he saw the expression on Michael's face, then returned when he saw Sophia. He set his paper bag of clinking bottles on the counter next to the fridge, and said hello to her before walking over and introducing himself to her husband.

Sam looked around. "What did I interrupt?"

Michael outlined the CIA-DEA cooperative plan as it had been explained to him this morning by Raines.

Sam's response was to let out a low whistle. "What happened to let's get rid of Anson?" He emptied the bag and stashed his beer in the refrigerator before opening one. No one accepted his offer for one when he made it.

"That's the plan," Sophia said. "Or part of the plan. The Sinaloa cartel is buying weapons from him and this other partner you've all seen but we haven't, Management? We need to eliminate both of them."

"But the minute either of them sees Michael, they will know-" Fiona started to say.

This time Sam didn't whistle; he sat down on a stool. "Good God. The Sinaloas. Mikey, tell me you're not seriously considering this."

Sophia explained. "Anson won't see him; we've got people in Florida City arresting him now."

"What?" Sam muttered.

"Raines sent Peterbaugh and Carnahan to work with the DEA to arrest him. They're there now," Michael said as he walked over to look out the door to the deck.

Sam scoffed. "They think they're just going to walk in and arrest him? Good luck with that, brother, and since when . . . no offense, Sophia . . .did we start working for the DEA? Those guys hate our guts. Well, yours more than mine, Mikey, but you know what I mean."

"It's an assignment, Sam," Michael explained. His fierce gaze stilled Sophia when he focused only on her and said, "what I really want to know is _why are you_ doing this?"

"Because of me," her husband spoke up.

For a moment, every pair of eyes in the room were on him. "Do you know about a Sinaloa cartel lieutenant named La Barbie?"

Sam's eyes lit up. "Isn't he that Texas kid some high school coach nicknamed Ken like the Ken doll. Turned out he'd been running drugs or . . . " Sam paused, searching his memory.

Sophia filled in. "That's right, only he's not a kid anymore. He was arrested a couple of years ago and he's in a Mexican prison. He's Sinaloa, and his gang ran counter ops on the Sinaloa's rival Los Zetas. You may have heard that his crew likes decapitation as a way to encourage honesty."

"La Barbie's men executed my family like that," Sophia's husband spoke up. "Becasue they thought they were working with the Zetas or the government. They hated everything about drugs, so they could have. I don't know for sure."

"Your injury," Fiona interrupted. "Are they responsible?"

He nodded. The room grew quiet.

"Are you one of their targets?" Fi followed up.

When her husband didn't answer, Sophia spoke up. "We have our wanted lists; they have theirs."

"Well, isn't that good news," Sam muttered.

"And you really think you can get this done?" Sam asked forcefully. "Because with this bunch, you've just upped the odds for failure times ten."

"We're committed to this," Sophia said.

"I don't know if this is a war that can be won," Michael said quietly.

#

#

#

After Sophia and her husband left, Sam called Jesse and asked him to come over to the loft.

"He'll be here as soon as he checks on Pearce," Sam muttered. "Dammit, what in the hell are we getting into here?"

"Michael, you're not saying anything," Fiona pointed out the obvious.

He looked down to the floor before answering. "You know this could all tie into the CIA involvement with the ATF and the Fast and Furious operation."

Sam and Fiona looked at each other and sat down on the stools at the kitchen work bench.

"You are a very smart man, Mr. Westen." Sam let out another low whistle.

"I've obviously missed what you're talking about," Fiona said.

"You were in jail, Fi. That's why you missed a lot of this stuff," Sam said.

Michael moved away and stood in the open doorway to the deck, just as Jesse came through the loft door.

"What's this about working with the DEA?" he asked. "Who's fool idea is that?"

"Good question," Michael said.

"Got an answer?" Jesse wondered.

"Got the start on a theory," Sam explained. "Was just about to tell Fi . . . "

Jesse leaned against the back counter by the sink. "Let's hear it."

"This one is more than just stopping the Sinaloa cartel from building a Caribbean route. I'm guessing the bigger picture is about Mexico's elections in July," Sam said. "I'm not saying stopping the route is unimportant, but you need to see the big picture."

"Elections?" Fi asked.

"Yeah. Unlike the previous administration, the current president, Felipe Calderón, doesn't like drugs or drug gangs. He's been taking them down. Or at least working on it. A lot of people dumb enough to still work in intelligence have been afraid Los Zetas will mount a coup d'état, take him out or find some way to subvert elections. So what did we do? We, oh, excuse me. Let me be clear. When I say _we_ I mean the CIA . . . anyway, we came up with this piss poor idea for an operation that we won't admit to being behind and then we handed it off to the DEA and ATF who couldn't help but screw it up even more."

At the puzzled expression on Fi's face, Jesse explained. "We armed the cartels."

"We do more than that," Sam added. "We train 'em Fort Benning at the School of the Americas. We turn them into Mexico's special forces, then they get a taste of the good life running drugs and what do you get? Special forces-trained criminals with a taste for blood."

"Are they still training them?" Fi asked.

"Yes. But that's becasue at the time they're trained, they're allies," Michael said. "But in Mexico, Central and South America, alliances change quickly. The cop we train today could be the dictator running the country five years form now. "

"And has been," Sam added.

"It's all about numbers, Fi. The DOJ says illicit drug sales are almost at $50 billion annually," Jesse said. "It's a like the plague."

"And they want you to help?" Fiona asked, glancing at her husband.

"Because Anson's involved."

A few moments later, when Sophia called, she confirmed what Michael suspected would happen. The special DEA team had arrested a small group of armed mercenaries at the Florida City location Fullerton had been seen at, but not Fullerton.

#

#

#

That night, the absence of light seemed more deeply intense, the darkness nearly overpowering. The morning return to light seemed too far away, almost as if the possibility that light existed had been extinguished.

As they took each other and shared their bodies, an element of desperation entered the privacy of their bedroom and invaded their peace. Whenever Michael awoke, Fiona was there to hold him firmly to the earth. When she awoke, he was there to anchor her from the tumultuous seas that threatened. And, when he felt moisture from her eyes, he kissed it away because, for now, that was all he could do.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

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#

It was 0500 when Michael and Fi turned into headquarters; Jessie was right behind them. Nick Carnahan and Ryan Peterbaugh were waiting, and both wore grim, irritated expressions.

"Are we working for you again?" Carnahan asked.

"Or has Raines permanently loaned us all to the DEA?" Peterbaugh wondered, his words heavily coated with sarcasm.

"Conference room," Michael indicated.

Jesse flipped on lights and ventilation, Fi started coffee and Michael opened his laptop to take notes for the debrief he planned to file at the end of the meeting.

"We're going to start here and then continue elsewhere," Michael said. "OK by you, Jess? Or will your job . . ."

"Yeah, my office or the loft. Your preference. You mean this isn't my job?"

That stopped him. Fiona glanced over at Michael.

"No, it isn't, but I don't know what I'd do without you. Your place for this meeting, OK? And thank you."

Carnahan and Peterbaugh exchanged a glance.

"Tell us what happened, gentlemen," Michael said.

And they did. Either the DEA intel was wrong or Anson Fullerton had departed hours before they'd arrived. It wasn't complicated. Interviews with the mercenaries they captured didn't revealed anything new. The DEA agents hauled them away, asked them to wait while they checked the empty office building Anson and his mercs had occupied, then said adios. Nick and Ryan had returned to base and called Michael. What next, they wondered.

"We're going to continue this in private," Michael said, fully aware that Raines had ears in the room, but pretending that wasn't true, he emailed his debrief report, then powered down the laptop.

When his phone rang, he glanced down, frowned then flipped it open. "Yeah, Sam?"

He listened for a moment and swallowed a groan. "Yeah, I'll be right there."

"What?" Jesse asked.

"Mom's at the loft."

Jesse frowned. "You didn't call her when I told you to, did you?"

Peterbaugh chuckled.

"Big bad DEA-CIA op interrupted by Mom," Carnahan drawled.

"I'm sorry, but I got to take care of this."

Jesse threw Michael a lifeline and interpreted the situation. "She was in a safe house, and now she's not. Call us when you get her settled, Mikey."

Michael winced at the Mikey and stifled a groan as Fiona, smiling, stood by the door waiting, keys in her hand.

#

#

#

"Michael, I am tired of being stuck with Nate and Ruth and Charlie, away from my home and my friends and everything I enjoy. I'm putting an end to this nonsense right now. I want to go home."

Madeline extinguished her cigarette by dropping it in one of Sam's mostly empty beer cans, and pulled another out of the pack.

The only person who looked unhappier than Michael or Madeline was Sam.

Fiona took a look at the entire menu of unpleasant expressions worn by those in the loft, and chose to take matters into her own hands. She started by removing the cigarette and lighter from Madeline's hands and putting them on the counter.

"Madeline, I need to talk to you. Michael, do what you need to do, call Raines, whatever. And, Sam, you should take an aspirin. There used to be some in that cupboard. You look like your head hurts."

She steered Madeline to the deck, closed the door behind them for a modicum of privacy she was certain Michael would appreciate.

"I know you're ready to yell at Michael, and I can appreciate that, but I need to tell you this is not a good time."

"I've heard _that_ before," Madeline grumbled.

Fiona persisted. "It's really not a good time to be putting yourself in danger by leaving the safe house."

Madeline was not demonstrating the least bit of cooperative spirit, and her voice was strident as she tried to walk past her. "Listen, Fiona, I need to have few words with _my son_ . . ."

Fi interrupted her movement by placing a gentle hand on Madeline's very tense arm. "My husband," she said softly.

Madeline stopped. A confused expression appeared on her face as if she couldn't process the word _husband. _

"Your son is my husband," Fiona repeated.

Madeline's expression flipped from instant pleasure to instant irritation. "And when did _that_ happen? You didn't invi-"

"I'll tell you all about it," Fiona said softly, guiding her mother-in-law to the bench on the deck. "I especially want to tell you about my wedding ring."

Madeline looked down at Fiona's hand and criticized. "He didn't even buy you a diamond."

"I don't want a diamond. This is much more precious."

They sat on the wooden seat next to each other as early morning sun played tag with the clouds behind them. Fiona took Madeline's hands in hers and began to talk.

Forty minutes later, Madeline understood what had happened to both Fiona and Michael since she'd been put in protective custody with Nate and his family, everything from Fiona's self-defense after Anson visited her in prison, to their leased house being blown up, to understanding in general terms, the new, dangerous assignment Michael had been asked by the CIA to fulfill.

She found her mother's heart reconciling the knowledge that her son had kept Fiona's Claddah ring, the wedding ring she wore, for fifteen years, then laughed at his sense of urgency to marry once Fiona was free from prison. And then, there was that last bit of perception-shattering news.

She'd expected it of Nate; she had never expected it of Michael.

Madeline had hugged Fiona and told her how happy she was that Michael finally had come to his senses, and hoped that some day they might think of safer things to do with their lives or think about having a family. That's when Fiona explained there wasn't a single thing they were doing to prevent having a family.

She realized, quite honestly, beyond the first hours after Michael's birth, the past moments with Fiona had been among most happily satisfying in her life as his mother. Her son had become what she had never known: a loving husband.

"You know," Fiona explained quietly, "since you left, they'll need to move Nate and Charlie and Ruth now. You'll need to go with them to stay safe. When this is over, we can all be a family, but we need to keep each other safe now. I know you don't like this, but it'll be a lot easier for Michael, and me, too, Madeline, to know you are safe."

Madeline dabbed at the corner of her eyes, and realized that she hadn't had a cigarette in 45 minutes now. She said so.

"Maybe you can go another 45 minutes," Fiona suggested.

"Hmm. Maybe."

There was a cautious expression on Michael's face when Fiona opened the deck doors and waited for Madeline to enter the loft. She went straight to him and gave him a hug which he freely returned. She looked up into his face and studied him for a long moment. "You're not happy with me right now . . . but you're happy."

"I am, Ma," he said softly. He looked over the top of his mother's head to Fi and smiled, hoping she could see his gratitude. "We've made arrangements for you to be relocated. Nate and Ruth and Charlie are being moved now. They'll give you an emergency number if you need to get in touch, but it'll go through a special unit opertor, and I won't always be able to answer. Understand?"

#

#

#

"That didn't take long," Jesse said when Michael and Fi arrived at his office. Carnahan and Peterbaugh were looking at maps on a large wall screen of the Southwestern U.S. and Mexico.

"Saved by my wife again," Michael said. "Oh, we didn't do introductions this morning, did we? I'm sorry. Ryan Peterbaugh, Nick Carnahan, my wife. Fiona Glenanne."

Fi shook her head and smiled. "That's Fiona Westen. He's had a hard morning." She shook their hands. "Good to meet you."

"Important member of the team," Jesse filled in. "Sharpshooter, precision driver, IRA-trained bomb builder and you shouldn't mess with her. Anson visited her in prison and she sent him to the hospital. He escaped from the ambulance before it got to the hospital, but they carried him out of the prison. She laid him out cold."

"Why, er, when were you in prison?" Carnahan asked.

Michael glanced sharply at both of them. "I thought Raines debriefed you on Anson's blackmail schemes."

"After that op with Reed went south, he interviewed us about Rebecca Lang. That was months ago. He said he believed she was being blackmailed, but we didn't know anything about that and we didn't discuss anything else."

Jesse, Michael and Fiona exchanged glances.

"This will never work unless you know what we're dealing with," Michael said.

Jesse picked up his phone when it blinked at him. "Yeah, send him in."

Sam joined them and reported Madeline's departure had gone smoothly. "Little sleight of hand and she's disappeared again. So where are we now?"

"We're going back to square one," Michael said.

"Why?" Sam wondered.

And after Michael explained why, Sam sat down, crossed his arms and wondered if Raines was being inefficient because he was being blackmailed or if he was responding the way he was because his wife was more ill than either her or she had indicated.

Michael began the tale with his burn notice and how that had played into what they were dealing with today with Anson Fullerton and his illusive co-conspirator, Management, who may or may not be dead.

It was nearly noon when he finished telling the story. He'd paused to answer questions as they arose.

Peterbaugh, who had run stateside support for several of Michael's ops prior to his burn notice, had been listening carefully. "You think Anson's got someone in the DEA, too."

"Or more than one," Fiona interjected.

"So it'll make the cartel op even riskier," Carnahan added.

Hearing Michael's story from beginning to end had a different effect on each person in the room who'd heard it.

Sam was thankful he'd given up retirement because this had been a hell of a lot more fun than sitting on his butt by a pool every day.

Fiona was thankful they had survived, that there was no doubt they belonged to one another.

Jesse had never heard the entire tale before, but as someone who'd worked in counterintelligence for more than a decade he realized, like Michael did, they might be dealing with the tip of the iceberg.

Peterbaugh and Carnahan were amazed they were all still alive, and said so.

"I'm thinking a lot more positive thoughts now about this job," Nick said. "If you all lived through that, you're golden."

"Careful," Michael said. "We're as careful as we need to be, and we need to be even more so on this next job."

"Wanna know why?" Sam asked.

They turned and looked at him.

"We think we're being set up . . .well, you two CIA guys and Mikey more than me, Fi and Jesse, but you're going to be the fall guys."

"How do you figure that?" Peterbaugh asked.

So Sam told them. By the time he was done, they both wore somber expressions. Both of their careers had been long enough to experience the CIA-DEA rivalry and distrust.

"And here's the thing," Michael added. "If we stray away from mission objective, get caught up in a cartel war, we're dead, either figuratively or literally."

"The objective is to take out Anson as an arms supplier on this side because the DEA wants to break the supply line before it's built," Peterbaugh said. "Is that the only objective?"

"It is," Michael agreed.

"Yeah, and after that?" Carnahan wondered. "You know if we're successful, they'll want us to do more."

"That's true. They might want _you _to do more, but I'll be retiring if that's the case."

Sam didn't allow room for discussion on that topic. "If you haven't run into the real bad blood flowing between the DEA and the CIA you're about to take a bath in it. This op could be or probably is a set up. Feels like it, anyway. If it's designed to fail, they can redirect their current bad press to the CIA and heap the blame. Given how hot the spotlight is currently on the DEA and ATF, they need that. And Sophia? They don't care if they burn one of their own."

As soon as Sam made that remark Jesse shook his head at Sam's deductive reasoning. "And there you have it. That's the plan. They're planning on burning Sophia. Somebody knows the story why she wants justice for her husband's family, and they've read her motivation and they're playing her."

"Even if she knows it, she won't care," Fiona added.

"Is anything what it seems?" Carnahan asked finally. "We're tactical support. This isn't something we usually deal with."

"It will be if you want to survive with us," Michael said.

"You got to learn to look at the layers of information," Sam added. "Usually the truth sorts itself out pretty fast. Or at least you hope it does."

"You mean, if you have a team like this one doing it," Peterbaugh added.

"Yeah," Michael said. "Jesse, how's Pearce, I mean, really? She didn't look good the other night. Do you think she's up to running an op?"

"She's on medical leave," Jesse said, frowning.

Michael glanced over at Jess and held his gaze. "Not what I asked."

Sam laughed. "Good one, Mikey. Good one."

"I'm not following the damned bouncing ball you people have going," Peterbaugh said with some irritation.

Fiona explained. "They're trying to take Raines out of the loop. If he's been compromised, it eliminates a threat. If he's inattentive because his wife is quite ill, it's dangerous. The DEA people don't know Pearce. We do, and we trust her. She's solid at the CIA, so they trust her, too."

"Jess?" Michael asked, watching as his friend squirmed just enough.

"Yeah, I'll ask her."

"Sooner would be better," Michael urged.

"Fine," Jesse muttered. "I'm going home. Everyone out."

"Can Fi and I come, too?"

"Oh, hell, yes, why not."

Sam raised his eyebrows, Peterbaugh and Carnahan were oblivious to the undercurrent, and Fiona smiled at Michael.

#

#

#

Pearce was coming down the steps to the second floor in Jesse's townhouse when he opened the door. Michael and Fiona were right behind him.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jesse wanted to know.

She smiled, her hand on the railing. "Exercise. Since I can't drive to the physical therapist, I'm taking online advice. Stairs are a great exercise."

"Until you fall," Jesse mumbled.

"I am getting rid of that damned wheelchair."

"That's good news," Michael said. "You're looking a_ lot_ better than you did the other night. I'm wondering, do you think you'd be up for running an op?"

Fiona noticed Dani was wearing the grey lounging set she'd gotten for her. Her feet were bare, her hair was down and loose around her shoulders, and she looked . . . she looked like she did in that photo Fiona had seen on her desk.

She came down the stairs and walked over to sit on the couch. "What kind of op?"

"The one I told you about," Jesse said.

Michael and Fiona took seats on the couch that faced the one Dani was on. Jesse took the opposite end.

"Do you really think Raines has been compromised?" she asked.

"I don't want to believe that. His wife is very ill, and I think he's distracted as anyone would be."

"He is my boss, too, Michael."

"If . . . or when the time comes . . . "

"I'll do it," Pearce said. "Jesse can keep me informed."

"Thanks. Well, I've got a lot of reading to do on the Sinaloa and Zeta cartels . . . so see you later."

Michael and Fiona walked to their townhouse just a short distance away, and as Michael opened the door Fiona turned to him. "She's in love with him."

Michael shut the door behind them. "I don't think it's a one way street."

And it wasn't. But it was a street without a name so far.

"Know what this means now that I can do stairs?" Dani asked Jesse after Michael and Fiona left. "I can move my stuff upstairs and you can have your room back."

Jesse's smile was slow and sweet. "I've got my room back."

"That's not what I meant."

He shook his head with a nearly imperceptibly small negative motion. "You're fine right where you are."

He looked away then, toward the door. "I need to go back to work."

"Then I'll see you later."

He nodded and left, and Dani closed her eyes and realized her pulse rate had increased, and she would have another night of peace sleeping in his arms.

She didn't know if she could give that up. Ever.

#

#

#

"Are you done?" Fiona asked, yawning.

Michael put down the file he'd been reading on the table by their bed and rubbed his eyes. "For now, I think."

She'd been reading behind him. Everything he'd been consuming about the Sinaloa Cartel and the Los Zetas, she'd been reading, too. It was frightening, the stuff of nightmares.

She was just about to tell him that when he turned and took her into his arms. "I need to say thank you, Fi, for how you helped with my mom this morning. What did you say to her? It was like she left a different person."

"I told her everything important a mother wants to hear about her son, and then I told her something personal."

He held her away to look into her eyes. "Such as?"

"We're not being very careful."

His smile was slow and seductive. "No. We're not."

And they weren't.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

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It was some time later when Fiona sighed and laid her head on his damp chest. "I like hearing your heart beat like this," she said.

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. "You do."

"Hmhm. It makes me happy."

"Me, too."

_Careful_ officially died the day they were married, only to give birth to something entirely new. It brought a gift of unexpected intensity and a deeper intimacy. An intrinsic coupling of mutual desire accompanied a primal human need neither had been fully aware existed before they found how much each of them wanted their child.

If such a miracle occurred they agreed what would be abandoned and what would be kept, should it come to that. There had been too much heartache between where they had started until now to delay something so important, so necessary.

Their marriage had yet to occur when Michael returned to the tender subject he touched on when Fiona told him she wasn't in any condition to drive. She'd been trembling, unsteady and she knew her distraction would hamper her ability to drive safely.

He shouldn't have told her about the marriage license that way, but he was compelled by a sense of urgency.

_No condition to drive._ Her words flipped him end for end and turned a snapping breeze of emotion into a hurricane force he couldn't slow or hide.

He wanted _this condition_ to mean something. And it might have, but it was too soon since she had only been free to be his for such a short time. No. They had not been careful. He hadn't been because he didn't want to be, but when he told her _this condition_ could mean something else, she worried. He tried to reassure her, but he could tell it didn't.

A wink of time returned a memory of her watching a small girl held in her father's arms remove his cap from his head and put it on hers. It was so large it slid over her eyes and the child turned the moment into a game of peek-a-boo. When Fi glanced back at him with the warmth of delight, he frowned. Soft, curved lips dropped into a straight line as she coolly evaluated him then stood and left Carlitos without waiting for him to follow. A few years later, she'd worn the same expression and had walked away again after correcting him for calling Nate's infant son _it_. "Babies have genders, Michael."

They had never spoken of what he had protected himself from, but in the past year so many things had changed between them, they should have talked about it.

It had always been there, always between them, with every precaution he took. He always assumed she had done the same, but he realized he had never asked. Not once. Not even when he hadn't remembered to say _no_ because the urgency of seeing her again overpowered his ability to say it.

That _no_ had always been his.

It was sensible. Intelligent. Protective.

He owned it.

He'd embraced _NO_ from the moment he first understood the power of his body. _**No**_.

He hadn't understood the power of his _no, _until every _no_ he had given her resounded as loud, discordant clanging he'd been unable to hear until the moment she disappeared, surrounded by that SWAT team.

In the first weeks after he'd lost her, he'd returned to every conversation he could recall between them. Pieces here and there, words that meant something to her, words he'd heard but purposefully denied, deflected or ignored, knowing his interpretations hurt her, yet he couldn't stop. He had not wanted to stop because . . . then . . . then she would be angry with him and it was always so much easier for him because she was angry.

Until.

Until she'd raced through sniper fire willing to die with him.

Until she'd willingly surrendered her freedom to free him.

Until he understood there might never be a way to free her, and walls and bars and barriers would always be between them.

Until he discovered he no longer wanted barriers.

Until he discovered he wanted _no_ to be _yes_.

Until he struck that bargain with God.

He'd promised if God could see His way to free Fiona, he would give her everything her heart needed from him. The first was that ring he'd kept safe, kept hidden for too many years. Then he promised to honor her need to have a home, something he always believed best suited for anyone other than himself. And he promised if she wanted this final gift he could give her, he would say yes. He was dazed to learn how much he wanted it.

So he'd sat there in her car after they'd purchased the ring she wanted him to have. He'd taken a deep breath. Before they promised each other with vows he never intended to break, before they began as husband and wife, he needed to know if she wanted to be a mother if he was the father.

Fiona held her breath at his question. She didn't speak. She looked down to her lap then pressed a hand to her chest. He had misread her. He looked away, turning to stare without seeing out the car window, thinking this would be the price for saying _no_ so many times, but he would gladly pay it if it meant she would be his.

"I'm sorry, Fi. I thought . . . hoped . . . it would be . . ."

"You've made it very clear you didn't want that. Ever. And after learning about your father, I understand."

He continued to look away. If these were her conditions, he would take them. "Maybe I didn't, but now . . . I . . . " He couldn't finish.

"Michael, I have always wanted your child."

He turned then to look at her but she was staring straight ahead. "Always, Fi?"

"Even when I wanted to do great bodily harm to you."

He smiled. He had given her countless opportunities.

She turned her face to look into his and put a hand on his arm. He'd looked down at her hand, felt its warmth, then looked into her eyes, so sad, so dark, so serious, so beautiful.

"For as much as I love you, Michael, I could never allow you to put our child in harm's way by what you do."

"I would not do that," he said softly as she lifted the greatest of weights from him.

She studied him for a moment then opened her door. "We need to swap. I can drive now."

Neither fully regained equilibrium until much later that day, until they both said _yes_ to each other.

#

#

#

Jesse's choice for dinner had been perfect.

She didn't know what she was hungry for until he started opening the take-out boxes. He never asked what she would like. What he brought home would be what they would eat. If he was expecting her to complain, it didn't happen.

She'd learned they shared nearly identical tastes in food.

Tonight, he brought take out from an Italian bistro, something bursting with flavor, not too heavy, not too much, perfect. He had wine; she had ice water. Any form of alcohol didn't mix with the pain meds she was taking, and she still needed them, as much as she wanted that not to be true. When she'd gone to take her meds, he'd cleaned the kitchen.

After dinner they sat across from each other, reading. She'd requested the material from Michael and he'd retrieved the files from headquarters and brought them to her. Jesse had been reading some kind of technical spec sheet of something that appeared mechanically complicated, but as soon as she put down one file to pick up another, he dropped his sheet and picked up what she'd finished. Eventually, he'd moved to sit on the same couch. Between them, stacks of intelligence reports provided an ample barricade.

She'd looked into his background after she'd first worked with him. Until Michael burned him, he'd had a rising career in counterintelligence. Now, he wanted nothing to do with it, and despite his self-expired government background, she wasn't about to pull the _Confidential_ rubber stamp out, not for this, not for him.

When she grew weary, she yawned and rose and went into his bedroom. She used the bathroom, took some more drugs, brushed her teeth, then turned off the light and situated herself near the center of the bed, snuggled under the afghan and dozed off.

When he joined her later, he slid his arm under her to tug her closer. She moved up, sighed and rested her cheek on his t-shirt covered chest. He turned his head and kissed her forehead. She carefully moved her injured arm over his middle and he gently rested one broad, warm palm against her arm.

"Dani?" It was nearly a whisper.

"Mmm."

"You know we're going to have to talk about this."

"Mm."

#

#

#

Jesse called around noon to ask Michael to meet him at his office.

"Why don't I just walk down to your . . ." Michael started to say.

"I'd rather meet at the office, if you don't mind. I'm here now."

Jesse was waiting at the main entrance to let him in. On a Saturday afternoon, most SecuriCorp employees were elsewhere. Their footsteps echoed loudly across the lobby and up the sweeping stairs to Jesse's private office. They went past his assistant's desk and entered his office.

"Why did you want to meet here?"

"I've been thinking about your operation."

"We all have."

Once they got to Jesse's office, he turned and asked, "how well do you know Sophia Valdez?"

"Not well," Michael admitted. "Beyond what we did to help her several years ago, I hadn't seen her until the flight to D.C."

"Then let me show you what I found." He motioned to the table and the laptop sitting open there. "Take a look."

Michael sat down and looked at the screen, then clicked on the VALDEZ file. Page after page after page, the file contained nearly 70 years of the Valdez family history of marijuana and heroin smuggling in Mexico. Newspaper clippings and old microfiche documents had been selected and stored. It wasn't until he reached the last page in the first folder that he saw the family photo and read the caption. He looked up at Jesse.

"And look who's next to her."

"I saw that. Her husband. They were cute kids. They might have grown up here, but there's a family link to Mexico, and it's not just his family."

Michael looked away for a moment. "Where did you get this?"

"Here."

"Here?"

"Yeah." Jesse pulled out a chair across from where Michael was sitting. "This company was founded in the 1940s by some former Bureau of Internal Revenue people. We were at war on two fronts then, and Japan controlled the Asian opium supply. So these were the guys helping the ag advisers who were showing the locals how to grow the stuff here. Poppies."

"Meds for soldiers."

"Exactly. We'd been worried about that even before Pearl Harbor, so we convinced Mexican farmers to grow it because we needed a morphine supply. Taught them the a-b-cs of growing, drying, shipping. It wasn't the best quality, but it worked, and we used them until the war ended and regained access to the high quality Asian stuff . But you don't give up a crop you sell just because you lose a buyer. You find new buyers. You smuggle it until you get something better to smuggle, like cocaine in the 80s."

"By then drugs were in the culture. Everywhere,"Michael observed.

"And we were responsible because we wanted to take care of our people. Yeah, peace, love, LSD, whatever." Jesse snapped his attention back. His mother had been murdered by a druggie for the cash in her register. "So these guys from the 40s foresaw what could happen and the kept records on what and who they dealt with. When they formed this company they kept recruiting agents from the Drug Abuse Control Bureau and then the Federal Bureau of Narcotics."

"The DEA's parent agencies."

"Yeah, and when those people left government work for SecuriCorp, they updated with their material, which is why there's such a long timeline. The founders did this out of self-interest and self-protection. At one time, they thought they could turn the company into a partner with the new DEA, but it never happened. They wised up, the company diversified and now we provide high end protection for everything that needs high end protection. But we don't deal with drug dealers. They've got their own people.

"You shouldn't make the mistake of thinking these people are not as intelligent, skilled and as lethal as anyone on our side. The folks who run the cartels don't use drugs. They're professionals the same way we are, only their business is really ugly."

"Yeah," Michael agreed. "What made you look through your company's old files? It's not a logical place or something anyone could know about."

Jesse looked around the room, his own personal kingdom.

"You were off with Raines and Max somewhere when I first came back. You wanted back in. I thought I did. But I couldn't take it. I wanted out as soon as I got there, so I couldn't really believe my good fortune when the first place I looked into offered me an incredible opportunity in place I like, near people I like. And they put me in a position where all the doors were open on the inside. Well, you know my suspicious nature. I took the job then had to dig' that's when I found all this stuff," he motioned toward the laptop, "it triggered an alert. But it only went to one person. One of the original founders of the company. He'd been waiting to see how long it would take me to find it."

"You're still here, so I'm assuming that was good thing."

"It was," Jesse agreed. "I came back from lunch one day, and he was sitting at my desk, flipping through stuff."

Michael smiled. "What'd you do?"

"I was prime. Asked him who the hell he was and why he was in my office. So he told me. And then he asked me why I'd been snooping into stuff I had no business looking into. I told him it's always good to know where the skeletons are, and the people who founded the company had a lot of them. He's not the only one from the 70s who's still active but out of sight. No, what triggered this today was something I read in one of the reports you brought Pearce last night."

"Those were classified."

"I know, Westen. So are these files, privately. Not everyone can access them. There's another folder there. Open it."

Michael glanced back to the screen. The second folder was labeled Buller. He clicked it open and there, first page of the first file was a grainy image of . . .

"Fullerton."

Quickly, Michael scanned the content. Anson was the son of one of the agricultural advisers from the1960s who helped the Mexican government export their illegal crops and bypass their government's weak oversight.

Jesse shook his head. "I think he's blackmailing them. Might be good to figure about what before you fly to the Dominican Republic with her. Sam's right about the DEA objective. It's all politics. This game is getting deeper. I'll be honest, Mike. I don't think our little tag team is up for it, even with Peterbaugh and Carnahan helping. Not when you got two cartels on the opposite end of the field."

Michael blew out a deep breath. "I have to agree."

"I don't think we want to risk anyone, do we?"

"No. Did you tell Dani this yet?"

"Not yet. I wanted to come down and verify this before I called you. I know you're still working the problem. Where are you at?"

Michael leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Not much farther than asking all the questions.

"I find one question, it raises more. I can start with Raines. His former partner. And why the hell Larry let himself be captured outside my mother's house? I thought I understood, but I keep going back to that. Then there's Anson. When he wants to show up on a surveillance camera, he does. Where the hell is he? But if he has Sophia in his sights, we've got a door to that one. The other thing I keep going back to from last year is Larry and Tyler Brennan. Brennan imported Larry to keep me in line, until Larry killed him. Brennan was an arms trader. Is that why Larry killed him? To get his hands on Brennan's supplies? And then Management. He just vanished. Or did he?"

"Yeah, that's a big, messy picture." Jesse got up and walked over to look out an office window and stuck his hands in his pockets. The room was getting darker as the sky turned grey with the approach of a late afternoon storm.

"It makes me wonder if we have it all yet." Michael got up and joined him. "Thanks for this. This just - "

"By the way, I'm supposed to recruit you."

"Yeah?"

Jesse smiled. "I think I get a bonus."

"Well," Michael said, "If Fi gets pregnant, you got a shot at it."

"You serious?"

"I am."

They stood watching the storm clouds skid across the horizon, over the water, with a pale display of flickering lightning.

"Do you think we could do this one without guns, Jess?"

"Our own coups d'état? Yeah, it's probably the best option, but we need keep the guns handy."

"Only sensible."

"So, what kind of take-out do you want? I'm thinking we need to tell Sam and Pearce about this sooner instead of later." Jesse looked at his watch. "Meet at my place at six?"

Michael agreed. "Six. I'll call Sam."

"We need get everyone on the same page."

Michael turned and looked at Jesse. "Are you and Dani on the same page?"

Jesse turned and walked away. "Don't ask, okay? Just . . . don't ask."


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

#

#

#

Fiona was the only person in the room without a role, a job or a task. So she appointed herself the team's forward observer.

"This is a mess," Sam muttered. "Wonder what we can do to complicate it?"

Carnahan and Peterbaugh nodded in agreement.

Jesse had just walked everyone through the information he'd shared with Michael at his office during their afternoon meeting.

Michael had discussed his misgivings about how firm a grip the CIA had on their information. Dani mentioned that she'd called Raines earlier while Jesse was at his office with Michael and had asked to have her medical leave status altered; he declined her request for active service, but allowed her restricted activity.

If the near non-expression of irritation on Jesse's face counted, that news came as an utter surprise to him, and Fiona confirmed that when she saw his eyes meet hers a few moments later. She also noticed it was Dani who chose to look away first. She needed no further evidence that what was between them now fell into the category of extremely personal.

Sam responded to Dani's news with a positive, "Hey, she's back. That'll be the help we need, er, Mike needs."

But Michael was shaking his head. "We need Dani's help, but we're going to keep her out of the line of fire." Like Fiona, he'd seen Jesse's reaction. "She can do everything we need her to do from here. We're not meeting at the office for anything from now on. Nick and Ryan, use the range, but watch what you say and who you say it to. I think someone besides Raines has eyes and ears on us there. I don't want to risk a single person in this room. Agreed?"

"You think the office is bugged?" Carnahan asked.

"Yeah, they do," Peterbaugh said, as he sat up, leaned forward and sought simplification. He gestured, using his fingers to count off points. "Be patient with the tactical support, OK? But this is what I've heard so far.

"First, part of the Valdez family, the drug growers and smugglers who are Sophia's husband's people, were killed by the Barbie guy, who's on a different side of the same family. Second, her family was friends with her husband's family in Mexico when they were kids, and her family probably wasn't involved with the drug trade. Third, Anson, knows all this because he was a kid when his dad worked with someone in Mexican government to help set up a drug routes that the other part of the government was trying to shut down. Hmm. Kinda like the CIA and DEA."

Sam groaned at that.

But Peterbaugh continued. "Four. Sophia and hubby are probably being blackmailed by Anson because he knows something about their family background, but, five, she's so pissed you think she'll be reckless if she thinks she's doing something to save them and, six, they're doing all of this under the DEA umbrella of stopping the Sinaloa cartel from establishing a new drug route across the Caribbean. Did I get that right?"

"You missed the part where if we screw up a plan we haven't made yet, the CIA gets blamed, the DEA and ATF get happy because the spotlight moves from them to us, and we all lose our jobs or go to jail," Carnahan added.

"I didn't miss that," Peterbaugh returned. "I wasn't done. So, seven, some cartel, either Sinaloa or Los Zetas or it could be someone else, is gunning for her husband and we don't know why. And eight, we can't screw up anything that might affect the elections, although that seems weird to me. Nine, we don't have enough intel on Anson but Westen needs to talk to Sophia to find out if she's being blackmailed and if she is, we might have a way to find him. So, did I get that right?"

Michael's face was grim. "You did, with the exception that you should have started with taking out Anson Fullerton. That's mission objective for us; it should satisfy the DEA goal. We need to remove the rebuilt portion of the black ops network that operated inside the CIA for the last decade. We don't have a door in on that yet. Until Anson appeared, we thought we had them. If we lose sight of that, we fail."

"Mike's right," Sam interjected. "Thanks to Jesse, we've got some new doors and windows, but we really need to work fast. We don't know what the DEA timetable is for the op they want. Looks like Mike does the heavy lifting here with Pearce as back-up."

"How do you make a plan out of this?" Peterbaugh wondered.

"One thing at a time. I'm starting with what happened to Brennan's arms, going to chat with Larry and Vaughn, then Sophia," Michael said.

"Hang around, kid," Sam grinned. "We do this all the time."

"Let me pull the tapes from the Larry and Vaughn conversations Raines wanted recorded," Dani suggested. "Raines may be taking a Family Medical Leave; his wife is undergoing some specialized cancer treatment so he's not focused on this the way we are."

"Michael," Fiona said from across the room where she sat on a stool by Jesse's breakfast counter. "Might I suggest a door in to the network?"

Six faces turned back to look at her. "And that would be . . . ?"

"Oswald."

Carnahan and Peterbaugh looked at each other before Carnahan asked, "Who's Oswald?"

"Oh, no," Dani said. "Not that guy. I can not allow him anywhere near a CIA computer. Really, Michael. I can't."

Jesse crossed his arms over his chest and watched.

"He came to us, Dani. He reversed Void-BOT. Everyone thought that couldn't be done. Even Oswald thought so until he did it, but he's still worried about Anson. If we give him a way to be free of him forever . . . ?"

"It's just a guy on a computer, Dani," Sam said, pleading the case. "I'll grant you, he's a little strange, but, what do you say?"

"I'll make him stay at my office," Jesse offered. "We can break into CIA computers from there."

Dani looked back at Fiona. "Great idea, Fiona," she said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

Fiona just smiled. And, for a long moment, no one in the room said a thing. It was a lot of information to absorb, with multiple of implications, odd tangents and submerged hazards.

Michael turned to Jesse. It had been a fleeting thought when he saw the Buller file; he hadn't gone back to it until now. "What do you suppose the odds are that Fullerton is also operating under the Buller name?"

Jesse thought on that briefly. "First letter exchange, right in the open. Change your name to clean the family history for educational purposes, background checks with the DIA. Sounds like his style, doesn't it? Live life as Dr. Fullerton, have a career, then operate in the shadows under your real name. Hold on. I've got some nifty software and a secure network here."

"Here? Well, of course you do," Michael said.

"All yours whenever you want," Jesse teased as he left the room, went into the bedroom and came back with a laptop which he attached to an outlet hidden inside an end table drawer. He flipped another switch inside the drawer and secured the network, then sat down at the corner of the couch. Ten minutes later, he had his answer and smiled as he looked away from the screen.

He'd been talking to himself the whole time, barely under his breath, but audible so that everyone in the room heard him and was entertained by his form of concentration.

"And there you are, you weasel," he finally said, looking up at his audience, faces filled with curious and amused expressions. "What?"

"Party in your head again, Jess," Sam said. "What'd you find?"

"Randolph J. Buller looks a whole lot like Anson Fullerton." He turned his laptop around and displayed a Georgia drivers' license and a Florida drivers' license side by side. He was Buller in Georgia, Fullerton in Florida.

Sam and Fiona recognized the Florida address. "That's his empty apartment here," Sam explained. "With a CNR on the patio."

"And one more," Jesse said, turning the laptop back to display an Alabama drivers' license. "Yeah, Randy Buller looks like a good ole boy, doesn't he?"

"So two different Buller IDs. Anything else?" Sam wondered.

"Oh, yeah," Jesse grinned. "He likes the water."

He turned the laptop screen around so everyone could see. The psychologist didn't look like a nattily-attired shrink in this image, but rather, a too tanned sportsman, a fisherman beaming next to a very large tuna standing in front of a sign that read Seguro - The Finest in Deep Sea and Charter Boat Fishing. "He's an owner."

Jesse tapped a few more keys. "And . . . look at this website. Seguro Luxury Yacht Repair and Storage." He clicked on the map next and turned the laptop around. "Yacht storage facilities from the Caymans, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, St. Kitts, St. Vincent and Paramaribo. And it's not a secret the businesses are related; there's a link to either on both websites."

Jesse wasn't done. "He's got fishing boats, so that's one avenue off the panhandle with the charter fishing company and another luxury yacht repair and storage off south Florida," he said, as he continued to click through the Seguro images.

"Jackpot, Mike," Jess said looking up. "Wonder how much we'd find if we spent more than 10 minutes with this."

"Yes."

"It's a supply chain," Sam said. "Built for transporting drugs, arms, whatever illegal activity his little heart desires. Has either business hit the CIA or DEA radar yet? Hey, it must have. How else would the DEA know to look for Anson?"

"Sam, do you want to use my office for more research on Buller? Dani, you want to be there, too?" Jesse asked.

"That'll work," she said softly. "And I can keep an eye on Oswald when you import him."

"Can that be my job?" Fiona wondered.

"We'll do it together," Michael said.

"And we're . . .?" Carnahan asked.

"Staying healthy, keeping quiet about this, keeping your skills sharp," Michael said.

"What are you doing, Jess?" Sam asked.

"My job. Providing access to you all, and doing a little recruiting and research."

#

#

#

"What did Jesse mean about recruiting?"

Michael looked away and smiled to himself. "He told me today he'll get a bonus if he recruits me to work at SecuriCorp."

"And you said?"

"I said if you got pregnant, I'd help him get his bonus."

"You said _that_ to Jesse?"

They were getting ready for bed. He'd just tossed his shirt in a laundry basket and turned around at the faint sound of distress in her voice.

"Are you upset about that?"

"You just got your job back."

She had been sitting on the edge of the bed smoothing lotion on her arms. The pale gown she wore was nearly transparent, and he wondered why she'd bothered to put it on because she had to know it wasn't going to stay there long. When he reached her, he pushed her down, his soft woman in their soft bed.

"I just got _you_ back. I keep my promises, Fi."

She reached up to smooth her hand along his whiskery cheek. "I'm not pregnant yet."

He smiled and carefully removed the lovely gown. "Yet."

They put aside the outside world that came between them as he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips, her neck, his breath hot against her throat. "I need you again. How can I need you so much more every day?"

"I know. I feel the same way, and I don't understand it."

And then, with one more kiss, he was completely hers again, and there was nothing between them except a maddening passion that quickly escalated until they were whole, complete, one.

She had not understood the strength of surrender until she had surrendered everything for him, and to him.

Surrender ultimately brought her peace and the overpowering fulfillment of things that previously appeared in her dreams, distant and unformed. She had spent so much of her life in that incomplete state of loving him, waiting for him, hoping that he would come to her.

Her gift had been the humility she learned from spending so many years knowing she would have exchanged everything to have a life with him, to have his child. When she settled for so little after he asked her to live with him, she thought it would be so much more. Now she knew that never would have been enough. She would have always been empty.

Until she surrendered everything and had given up her freedom, her love for him. It was then, after he understood, that he returned everything to her.

The greatest gift he had ever given her was to want the same of her as she wanted of him. To become one, to have a child. They had become whole in each other, and she discovered that moment when they made love now, the moment that never existed before.

Because it could never have existed before.

Now, they empowered the other, the giving and the taking of their essential selves in that shared moment that was so intense that unbidden tears arrived to fill her eyes and his.

This was theirs alone. Something precious, something to be protected.

They discovered it was not an accident of emotion. It was the full force of love, and it would be repeated. And every time it was, she was humbled anew by the depth of this love Michael had held and hidden inside himself, until he had finally given it to her after she had completely surrendered.

She thought once, she could not love him more. Now, she knew she was wrong. Each day began anew, each day she loved him more than she had yesterday. To have Michael return her love the same way, sent her heart reeling from the intensity of his gift.

This was such new time and place in her life. As a woman who spent most of her youth and adult life competing in the same arena as men, the idea of submitting, of being submissive in love was daunting and more than a little terrifying until she discovered it could also be freeing and liberating.

It was then she learned a truth: submitting to love was power.

It was also the most joyous, delicious, perfect sensation she had ever experienced, and she knew now she could not live without it.

#

#

#

Fiona was shocked to find Barry and Oswald together at Carlitos. She'd opened her phone prepared to call Barry when she spotted them sharing a table near the perimeter of Carlito's seating area. Michael's phone rang as they approached, so she left his side and walked over to their table.

"You two seem to be getting along, better, " she commented.

Oswald looked down. "We've been . . . scammed."

Fiona took a chair. "Sherry?"

"She ran off with a friend of ours. Greg." Barry looked down at the table.

"I'm so sorry to hear that. What else did she run off with?" Fi asked.

"My BMW," Oswald said, his face long and glum.

"And cash," Barry said. "A lot of cash. I bet she doesn't even have a sick aunt."

"You could report-" Fiona started to say but Barry shivered.

"Don't even suggest that."

Michael joined them then and made quick work of his offer to Oswald. "You'll be out of the loop for a while," he explained.

"Lucky," Barry said. "I wish I could drop out like that."

Michael paused. "Would you like to help Sam with a little project he's working on?"

"Are these related?" Oswald asked.

"Yes."

"And what's in it for me?" Barry wondered.

"Gratitude, Barry. Lots of gratitude."

"And Sherry will have to wonder where you both are when she leaves Greg," Fiona said. "Because you know that will happen, only neither of you will be around for her."

Oswald and Barry looked at each other. Barry nodded.

Michael called Jesse and informed him of the change in plans. "Are we good to go?"

"Yeah, as long as you have a car," Oswald said. "Because mine is missing."

#

#

#

Jesse relocated Barry and Oswald temporarily in one of the guest apartments for potential clients at SecuriCorp. It provided a personal level of security and a comfort zone of personal space for both of them for the evening.

They started working the next morning when Jesse and Dani arrived at his office. Seven hours and 27 minutes after they started, they produced results the likes of which Jesse and Dani had never seen. Anson had buried a list of NOC agents and his income and personnel sources in the CIA, FBI, DEA and all the lettered agencies that provided allergic reactions for Fiona.

Sam coordinated information.

Dani looked at Oswald and Barry. "The CIA needs to hire you."

Jesse grinned. "Nope. SecuriCorp does."

"No, no, no, no," Barry said. "No. I'm allergic . . . to abbreviations. If I stay here much longer, I'll break out in hives. "

"What he said," Oswald agreed. "And corporations. And besides, I don't have a degree. Those people are big on degrees."

Oswald found the leak in the CIA network, used his reverse programming tools to locate the hidden files behind layers of firewall. He'd worked so quickly and easily, that while he did that he explained to Pearce why the CIA needed to upgrade their networks. "If I can hack you, anyone can. And does, from the looks of this."

Dani wasn't sure she agreed with his self-deprecating assessment, but she understood what he was saying.

While Oswald was hacking, Barry had been searching.

He'd located layers of financial records that linked Seguro Charter Fishing with Seguro Yacht Repair and Storage and three FBI agents and two DEA officers and a DIA counselor and dozens of others who could be employed in law enforcement.

"I'm calling . . . Oh, there he is," Sam said as Michael held open the door for Fiona and walked in behind her.

Barry wanted to know if they were done.

"Yeah," Jesse explained. "For a while. But Mike may have some more stuff later today after he's done talking to some other people." Better they didn't know about Larry or Vaughn yet.

Jesse looked over at them. "You two guys want to be roommates for a while longer?"

Neither looked comfortable with that.

"I have clients," Barry protested.

#

#

#

They had been living intimately, sharing nearly every intimacy except for one important intimacy. It wasn't that she didn't want that. She did. But she knew he wouldn't consider it until she had healed more. Then she had that other thing she should tell him about, but doubted she'd be able to.

Currently, Jesse helped her get dressed. She could now raise her arm almost halfway up her body; it was quite an improvement in mobility since day of the perfume bottle glass bomb. He continued to change her bandages and tell her what she couldn't see, but today, he didn't replace the bandage on her scapula.

"I don't think you need it anymore," he explained as he smoothed antibiotic cream over the scar.

The idea that she might not need his help was becoming far more painful than the wounds she had been recovering from. His gentle touches had become something she craved. Something essential to her life.

"Hey, grab my brown belt out of that center drawer for me," he asked. He was other side of the room, getting ready to go to work. Dani was already dressed, and she would be going along again.

She opened the center drawer to his dresser, and there, amid several neatly rolled up circles of belts she found a photo sitting on top of a child's painted wooden box. She removed the belt he asked for and then the photograph. It was old, the corners were bent, the image was slightly out of focus, and it very obviously was a precious keepsake to him. She found herself picking it up gently and looking at it. When she felt his presence behind her she looked into the mirror to see him looking down at her.

"That's Mom."

"What happened?"

When he didn't reply, she spoke again, softly. "You said you had foster moms. How many?"

"Five." He broke his gaze with hers in the mirror and took the belt from her hand before turning away.

She put the photo back in the drawer, and slid the drawer shut. "What happened, Jesse?"

After a moment of what she could see was some kind of internal debate, he told her, without looking at her, using words he must have rehearsed long ago.

Jesse took the same moment to wonder what he'd done now, and if he'd done it on purpose again. He couldn't seem to stop himself with this woman. What in the hell was he thinking? Or risking?

The thought that she'd soon be healthy enough to return to her own place had created an internal schism. His logical, sensible self always told him he was better off alone. That had held true for most of his adult life. His illogical, romantic half told him never had a woman, any woman, felt so right, so natural, so necessary in his arms. The thought that she wouldn't be in his bed some night grew increasingly painful.

He knew what was in the drawer, of course. Some part of him had been holding his breath waiting. He used the same words he used to tell Madeline when she'd asked. He told her how his mother had been killed. He had protected himself for so many years that deflecting the questions he knew would come next had become second nature. He took advantage of the moment to redirect with a question for Dani.

"Raines said he called your mother to tell her about your injury, but she was too busy to come to see you."

"That sounds like my mother."

"Doesn't she like you or something?" He was being flippant, and he was surprised when she answered honestly.

"This will sound strange, but no. My parents never planned on me. I was a surprise for them."

Jesse sat on the bench at the end of the bed and leaned down to tie his shoes. "Your mother doesn't like you. Wow. Did you argue a lot or . . .?"

Dani sat next to him. "No, we don't talk, so we don't argue. My parents were diplomats. A child interfered with their work, and I was an ugly kid. I embarrassed them."

Jesse looked at her. "Ugly? I don't think so."

She laughed. "I usually had a black eye or a sprained or broken limb. Band-aids. Braces. Glasses. Scraggly hair. Worse, I was always more tomboy than girl."

"What do they think of you now?"

"My dad was happy I found work I liked, but he's gone now. My mother is horrified I know karate and can use a firearm."

He put an arm around her shoulders and leaned in to kiss her lips with another one of those earth-shattering moments of intense sweetness. "Not ugly. Not."

And when he got up and left the room, Dani's heart fell to the floor, bounced up and did handsprings across the floor, walls and ceiling.

He was waiting for her by the door. She put her hand on his shoulder and rose on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. "I'm very sorry you lost your mother that way. That had to be really hard for you as a kid."

He held her hand when they walked to his car.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

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It was late in the day when Michael returned to Jesse's office. His assistant buzzed him through the security door to the anteroom before the work area off to one side of Jesse's sleek and elegant work place.

He found Sam grinning, Oswald looking satisfied, but Barry was twitchy from being confined in an area near so many people who carried concealed weapons. The only thing in their favor, Barry said, was that they didn't work for the government.

Despite that complaint, Sam explained what Oswald and Barry uncovered, and then Michael told them what he'd learned from listening to tapes of Larry and Vaughn's conversations in adjoining cells, and his subsequent prison visit with Larry. Vaughn had looked on from across the wide expanse where Larry had been placed in the same holding cell Vaughn occupied months earlier when he was Michael's person of interest.

"Larry killed Brennan to take his arms inventory off his hands, but before he could get to them, the Miami-Dade cops had arrested him for Brennan's murder. That's when the CIA took custody and returned him to prison in Albania. Before that happened, Larry had already made plans with a smuggler to access Brennan's supply sources in Haiti, Puerto Rico and Suriname. The smuggler? R.J. Buller. I showed Larry the photo of his Georgia drivers' license. He wasn't pleased."

"So that's another source he found to restore his supply line after you and Raines took it down last year," Sam said then smirked. "Guess it never pays to do arms business over the phone."

"Yeah," Michael said with a small grin.

Sam chuckled. "That had to irritate the hell out of him."

"It did. And I finally have the answer as to why he showed up at my mother's house."

Barry clapped his hands down on the worktable surface. "At your mother's house? We're talking your mom, right? Chain smoking, tea drinking . . . "

"Yeah, Barry, but he's in prison now. Mom's okay, OK?"

Barry rolled his eyes. "I gotta get out of here."

"Jesse knows about this?" Michael asked, indicating the research Oswald and Barry had compiled.

"Yeah, he took copies back to show Pearce and check on her." Sam frowned and looked back at Michael. "Hey, Mike, you don't think that they're, ah . . ."

"Not my business. I need to check in with Jesse, Dani and Fi. Are you done?"

"No," Oswald said with frustration. "We have a couple of things we want to check out first. I know something here that . . . I can't remember. It's going to bug me until I figure out what. Know what I mean?"

"I know exactly what you mean," Michael assured him. "Good luck, Oswald, and thank you."

"We can go home then, right?" Barry asked.

Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah, about that, Ozzie, Barry. We're going to need to keep you two safe until we take care of a few things."

Barry and Oswald both protested, loudly.

Sam waved Michael off. He had this one.

#

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They were sitting on the floor of the living area, both cross legged, sorting through the various documents she requested after Oswald and Barry finished their work earlier so she could see them. Dani wanted to organize them in a different way now that he'd brought them home.

Home. She didn't allow herself to dwell on that word, because it was too easy to get lost in possibilities she imagined instead of the improbabilities she understood.

"I find organizing information like this helps me see the size of the problem and, sometimes, ways to tackle it."

"You don't do this in your head?" Jesse wondered.

"Oh, I do," she assured him. "But this helps. Like the way you talk to yourself."

"I talk to myself?" His smile acknowledged her observation.

"Mmhum. You're entertaining. I'm . . . methodical."

"I'm not methodical?"

Dani glanced up and nearly held her breath. There was a sensual message in his question, she was sure of it, wasn't she? Maybe not. She'd never been very good at this sort of thing. The safest thing was to continue, and when she did, she saw the faint hint of a smile on his lips. She looked back down to the papers in her hands, utterly distracted for a moment.

"I meant, this was, is helpful. I did this for Raines when he came back from London. It illustrated the extent of the organization he and Michael brought down last year. It was huge. But Fullerton has rebuilt at an incredible pace. I'm not sure how one person could do so much in such a short period of time. It's like he has people helping him. A lot of people."

"He might." But Jesse wasn't looking at what Dani was looking at. He was studying the hollow at the base of her throat and the corner of the bandage protecting her reconstructed clavicle exposed under her t-shirt.

She glanced up at him and paused at the intensity of his gaze. "What?"

"You used to wear a necklace."

Her hands stilled for a moment. "I did."

"I gave it back to you. With your watch."

"You did." Dani looked down at her hands and the watch on her wrist before leaning closer to him and touching the gold chain at his neck. "Tell me about this and I'll tell you about that."

He reached inside his shirt and pulled out his mangled St. Christopher's medal. "Gift from my mom about a week before she was killed. She had this thing about keeping me safe. That bullet you took passed through you and hit it, so it protected me after you protected me." He looked down to tuck it back inside his shirt.

"You should have it repaired," she said. When he didn't say more but continued to hold her eyes with his steady gaze, she realized it was her turn and he was waiting for her to explain. "I was engaged to a man, an asset. We were going to get married, but the op he was helping with went bad and he was killed. He'd given me a engagement ring which was impractical for my kind of work, and after he died, I donated it and some other jewelry he gave me to a group that works with throwaway kids who live in garbage dumps in Honduras. I kept his picture in my locket."

She looked away then from his warm brown eyes. "He's been dead a long time."

That was as much explanation as she was prepared to give him, because Jesse had no equal or rival when it came to her heart. She now questioned if what she'd felt for Janssen had been a blinding infatuation instead of love.

Until Jesse appointed himself her caretaker and nurse, she hadn't understood that she had not been mourning Janssen's death. She had been mourning the loss of love in her life, not the love of her life.

Dani understood that Jesse didn't love her, that he was merely being kind or feeling remorse that she'd been injured, but that didn't matter. He had soothed her and helped her heal, and she hoped that kind of caring might have a chance to grow into something more because it was a kind of caring she had never experienced in her life. She'd fallen in love with him on the day she woke after her surgery when he started yelling at her for saving his life. He had made himself a constant presence in her life every moment since then.

She wasn't quite sure what to do about this discovery. Or what to think about the kisses she couldn't stop thinking about, including the ones he placed on her forehead every night.

A few moments later, she was immensely thankful to whomever knocked on his door.

#

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Fiona took one look at what Dani was doing and dropped down, crossing her legs as she joined her sitting on the floor. "I've seen this technique of yours before."

She was taking in every detail of Dani's arrangement of documents and information. Michael had come home with the news of Oswald's and Barry's research. It was astounding. Residence addresses. More business names and locations. Oswald and Barry had found all manner of Fullerton/Buller's addresses, physical addresses and post office boxes, with locations in country and out. They might not have uncovered all his hiding places but they'd found enough to give them a good start on where to go to bring him in.

Michael knew their next moves had to be coordinated, and for that he wanted to talk to Dani and Jesse. The longer they could keep a distance between their interaction with the DEA and the possibility of dealing with drug cartels, the better.

He was convinced of it.

After he explained what he wanted to do, Dani agreed. "That's what I would do, too, Michael," she said. "We need a more complete picture, and if you think Sophia's hiding something because Anson's targeted them, that's what you should do. If you're meeting with them tonight, we'll make the rest of our plans tomorrow."

Michael hadn't sat down since they arrived. Without realizing what he was doing, he was slowly pacing, thinking as he walked.

Michael told them what he'd learned from his visit with Larry earlier in the day and his reaction when he laid out who intercepted Brennan's arms. "No honor among thieves," he summarized.

"Did you figure out why Larry made himself such an easy target at Maddie's place?"

"Yeah," he said, as Fiona watched a muscle work in his jaw. Never a good sign, but she was pleased to see the Larry-effect on her husband was something he'd diminished, controlled. "He wanted my attention. He thought killing my mom in a way I'd recognize would do it. He didn't count on mom's neighbor or the alarm you installed, Jess, and he didn't know what Anson was doing."

"He screwed up."

"Yeah. But I don't want to with this. You said it, Dani's said it differently, and Sam's indicated the same thing. What you all have uncovered it too big for us. But, we need to finish gathering intel before we can set anything in motion, and for that we need to talk to Sophia and her husband. Your office is the safest place I can think of, Jess. What do you say?"

"You know I'm in, Mike."

"Trying to be polite, Jess."

"Yeah. I noticed."

Dani leaned back, bracing her hands on the floor as she watched them. "I've been wondering about something. Do Sophia and her husband have children? If Fullerton's blackmailing them, that might explain some things. We already know he's not above threatening a child since that's why Nate's family is being protected."

Michael and Fiona looked at each other.

"I can see how that would make for controlled irrational behavior," Fiona said.

"Employment records are confidential, but can Raines find out? Is he still working? Or is his wife . . . ?" Michael asked.

"He said he'd let me know when he took leave," she said. She stood and walked over to the corner where Jesse's computer was still hooked up to his secure line and sent a message to Raines.

"How long will that take?"

"A few hours. Longer, maybe. He'll have to make some calls."

Michael and Fiona returned to their townhouse. Jesse helped Dani finish sorting through her small stacks of papers, and she gathered everything up into neat piles and labeled them.

"I'm tired," she said.

"Go rest. I'll wait and watch for Raines' response."

"That may not be until tomorrow."

"I'll wait."

She understood his delaying technique, and a small part of her was glad about that. She also needed to put some space between them. The temptation to put her arms around Jesse's shoulders and seek his kiss for the sake of his kiss was nearly overpowering. She fell asleep moments after as she lay down on his bed.

#

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The room was dark, the bed was soft, and she dreamed Jesse was above her, nudging, speaking softly. "Dani, hey, Dani," he said. "Wake up, hon, come on."

With her body heavy and lethargic, her eyes closed to peaceful images that rolled through her sleep-intoxicated mind, she smiled and slid her hand up and around his neck to pull his head down to hers. When their lips met, she heard her own sigh of contentment, and felt him deepen the kiss as it turned into a sexy, luscious exchange, mouth to mouth, making a deliciously heated journey of discovery to new compelling sensations that made every part of her body react.

He rested on his arms above her as she turned and slid her leg along his until the proof of his desire halted her movement. He responded to their electrified connection by slowly pulling back from that kiss and raising his head. Her hand was on his arm and she felt it turn to steel as he raised up and took a deep and shuddering breath.

She realized the bedside lamp was on as she opened her eyes to find him studying her. "Oh." He had to feel her heart thumping in her chest since his was pressed against hers. Or maybe that was his heart beating. "I'm sorry, Jess-"

He shook his head. "Nothing to be sorry for. Go back to sleep." With that he got up and left the bed, then the room.

Dani lay still. She had been lost in a sensual dream that wasn't a dream. It was real. The next time she opened her eyes, Jesse was freshly showered, dressed and waiting for her to wake.

He'd been watching her sleep again. He'd spent most of his time in the hospital watching the same thing, only now he could see she was much healthier. No, there would be no more waking her. That wasn't a good idea. Not that it had been a bad idea. It had been a terrific idea until it backfired on him.

He planned to tell her about Raines' call, but he'd been distracted after his body took over for his mind. He had to leave. He knew he couldn't stay or sleep next to her now. He'd tell her what Raines had to say in the morning.

That would be the sane thing to do. He'd been patient. Waiting for her to heal, to regain her strength. This would happen between them; he'd stopped fighting himself about that weeks ago. But not until she was stronger. Now she needed to get up and get ready. They needed to meet Sam.

#

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"It explains how he rebuilt everything so quickly," Sam said.

Fiona was watching Sam carefully. It was as if he didn't believe what he was telling them, as if it was too incredible to comprehend fully.

He'd already taken Oswald and Barry back to the guest apartment Jesse's company provided, and she had been watching Michael assessing, then reassessing as Sam related his new intel.

Last night, Oswald was insistent that he knew something but couldn't remember what he knew, so he'd stayed and worked. Sam had been watching, collecting odd bits of information as Oswald came across them, and Barry had sacked out on one of the couches in Jesse's office because Sam refused to take him home.

By the time morning came, Ozzie had his answers, and was exhausted.

Sam called Jesse and Mike and told them where to meet him after he'd taken Oswald and Barry back to the SecuriCorp apartment. They were sitting at an open air cafe near the area where Fi and Michael had met Oswald and Barry weeks earlier.

Jesse and Dani were waiting for him when he arrived, and Sam was thankful to be outside after spending more than 24 hours inside Jesse's office.

Their waiter returned with a tray laden with breakfast items, none of which held the least bit appetizing scent for Fiona. She took a sip of her coffee and set it aside while watching Jesse and Sam dig into their omelets. Michael and Dani ordered yogurts with fresh fruit and granola. Fi took a bite of her melon before setting it to the side as well. Jesse, ever precautious, laid something that looked like a phone on the table, then flipped a switch to provide audio scrambling whether they needed it or not.

Sam eyed the coffee Fi wasn't drinking. He'd already finished his first cup, so she pushed hers his direction with a smile. "You need this more than me."

He thanked her and continued where he'd left off before their meals arrived.

By now, Michael had noticed her uneaten melon, and she pushed it toward him as she purposefully watched Sam and didn't meet his gaze.

"It's incredible. His father's been using his identity. Maybe it's his own. We can't tell. Looks like they swap when it suits them. And the photos? Man, they look like the same person at a distance. So you got two of them, and that's the connection between the Mexican cartels and the father son duo. Dad Buller probably still has the street cred with the drug people. Son Buller, Anson, has all the people inside our federal agencies that he's running with mind games and blackmail, and since he likes to target only the most skilled operators, together they've got a clandestine arms business that could be comparable to anything a major organized crime operation has."

Jesse shook his head. "All previous information indicated he was dead. Hmm."

"Apparently not," Sam said. "He's in his 70s. Which means he must have been building that empire when Anson was a kid. Sorry, this name crap is getting confusing. That's a long time. You got to figure that somewhere between the Cold War ending and eight or nine years ago when they started targeting nonofficial cover agents like Mike . . . and hell, Raines' old partner, they collected arms everywhere someone had to get rid of them. You were on to something with Brennan and Larry, Mike, but that's just the top of a very deep pile, I think.

"If we locate arms, like what he had in Tampa and where Dani got shot, I bet we'll be able to link stuff from the IICD. Remember last year when they made that final report that essentially said, yeah, we decommissioned a lot of arms but we didn't really keep track of them? The hell they didn't. That was all political. Someone's got a list. I bet you'll also find stuff like what we were trying to take out of Libya when, ah, Fi and I bumped into each other, and everything since then." Sam finished his analysis with a grim expression.

"And Oswald found all of this," Michael said, shaking his head. "Less than 24 hours. What tripped his switch?"

Sam stretched back and smiled. "He'd seen him before."

"Yeah?"

"Remember when you and Fi brought him back from Puerto Rico? Just before that, he'd been thinking about buying a yacht, a used one. He only saw the guy for a minute or two, but it was Buller senior. How about that for dredging up a memory? Guy's a genius," Sam said.

"No argument there," Michael agreed.

Sam chuckled then. "While he was working on this, he and Barry spent the whole time complaining about some girl, and I was watching as he pulling this stuff up on his screen. Listen, the CIA needs to start hiring some hackers. Tell Raines, Dani."

She frowned. "I'm pretty sure he's figured that out. So, Anson's father is alive and they operate an arms business in tandem with yacht repair and charter fishing. You're right, Michael, I need to take this to Raines or you do. This has grown beyond the scope of what we can deal with."

Jesse touched her arm and she turned to look at him. "Do have a secure place you can send it this? You ought to get this in his hands as soon as possible."

Sam interrupted. "You need to send this right to the top. Copy Raines and send it to the director. But it diverts the DEA operation."

"Might not be a bad thing," Jesse suggested.

"Might be the perfect thing," Michael said, "but not yet and not that way. This information needs to be handled in person. And before we do that, we need to meet with Sophia. Jesse, can I use your office? Or continue to use your office? She knew we were being watched when we went to Chantilly. If she's still being watched . . ."

Fiona watched their interaction. Jesse's grin was nearly as predatory as Michael's.

She exchanged a glance with Dani. "What are you two planning?"

"We'll be having a conversation, that's all, Fi."

"Just talking," Jesse agreed.

"And watching," Michael said.

"Fine. Lie to me," she said. "I want to point out one thing here. Since I was the last person to have contact with Anson, I can tell you he's lost his sanity. He's crazy and dangerous. Be very careful."

"Aw," Sam drawled. "Isn't that sweet, Mikey? The missus is worried about you." Then he looked over at Fiona, his tone of voice serious. "Don't fuss. You know Mike and Jesse can take care of themselves _in an office._"

Fiona crossed her arms, and found an irritated expression for Sam. He'd told her once it has been one of the reasons he had an ex-wife who, for reasons he never cared to explain, he'd never turned into an official ex-wife. He'd been a SEAL when they married and when he'd been deployed, she had worried about him to the extent he often didn't want to return home. Eventually, he'd stopped returning home.

She did know Michael could take care of himself, but even though it was too early to tell, she was extremely aware that her body had started to change in small ways, a very strong indication Michael was about to become a father. She wasn't ready to share the news yet. She needed to be sure, and she also knew she needed Michael to stay focused and not distracted.

Jesse grinned at her. "Didn't tell a single lie. We'll stay safe, Fi. We're just talking."

#

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Sophia Valdez arrived at 10 sharp, ready to plan an clandestine operation for the DEA with CIA assistance. She didn't think it was odd they were meeting at SecuriCorp, she told her husband. It had more to do with Westen than the CIA. "He does things his way, and if this is what he wants it's not a big deal. He and Porter are friends, strange as that seems to me."

Jesse Porter met her at the door to escort her to his office. Michael was waiting upstairs. She hadn't met Porter until today although she was aware of him, and had been debriefed on his working relationship with Westen.

Michael was in the office on the opposite side of the central atrium, across from Jesse's office, watching for Sophia's arrival with the security cameras that scanned the areas around the SecuriCorp building and parking area. He asked the operator to enlarge an image on one of the screens, then turned to another screen it to view it from the opposite direction.

There, that was exactly what he'd been looking for.

When Jesse showed him the room a week ago, he'd been impressed.

"Some call it paranoia, we call it security," Jesse explained. The building had many of the same secure features found in the DEA and CIA buildings in Washington area, and being able to see who was on the outside, around and above, was critical information to access.

Whatever listening devices, communicators or trackers Sophia had were neutralized the moment she stepped into Jesse's office area.

He joined Jesse and Sophia a few moments after she arrived.

"We good?" Jesse asked.

"We're good," Michael said.

"We need to talk, Sophia," Michael began, "about why you have two surveillance cars following you this morning. Your husband is waiting in the car, and we'd like to have him here, too, but we don't need to raise any red flags for you."

He complexion paled. "I really don't know what you're talking about," she said. "I thought we were going to discuss our operation in the Dominican Republic."

"We'll get there in a minute," Michael assured her.

"This may help," Jesse said. "We know you're wearing a tracker and a communicator and something else, probably under that necklace, you've got another listening device. All of them are being blocked, they were the minute you stepped into my office. This a private meeting, so whoever is listening in or giving you directions is offline until you leave the building."

She listened, evaluated and was debating what to do next when Michael asked a question that made tears spring to her beautiful eyes.

"Tell me about your children, Sophia," Michael said softly.

Her face, her body, her clenched hands formed an image of loss. "They have them. How can you possibly know this?"


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

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"What does Anson want you to do?" Michael asked.

"When we go to the Dominican Republic, I'm supposed to identify you to a Sinaloa boss who is being pressured by the Russian Mafia. They want you. That is all I know," Sophia said. "I was trying to figure out how to warn you."

"Russians." Michael frowned. This was a two-pronged attack, one from the inside of the DEA and, or the CIA, and the other, an icy vodka from his past, with a twist.

Old Soviet agents who now held leadership roles the Russian Mafia had found new opportunities close to the US border. They'd inserted themselves between Mexican drug cartels to encourage and build more distrust between them. Not only was Fiona worthy of being auctioned in certain circles of enemies, but so was he.

However, that wasn't the Russians' goal. If cartels were fighting each other, Russian Mafia would do what they do best: they'd roll in and take over. It was an established footnote in many of the CIA briefings he'd been studying. With the Sinaloas controlling access most to the American Southwest and Baja and Los Zetas controlling much the Gulf Coast, the spoils of a war fought between Durango and Monterrey would be access in, around or across the middle with a Russian Mafia toll charge. La Familia cartel had a small chunk controlling Michoacán, and were gaining strength, but he could see how the Russians would target the smaller cartel, like Xs and Os in their playbook.

"So before we begin our trip to the Dominican Republic, we've been outed, and the mission goals outlined for us at Chantilly cannot possibly be met," Michael said as he walked to the window and looked down to where Sophia's husband waited in a car.

"That's it," she agreed.

"How did Anson introduce himself to you?" Michael wondered.

"As a delivery driver," she said. "That was the first time I saw him. He delivered a box which we never opened because we hadn't ordered anything so we called a number on the label, and they argued that we'd ordered it. We became suspicious but that's when Anson showed up. He knew all about my husband's family, mine, and the fact that you helped me several years ago."

Michael shook his head. "He was tracking me then but didn't know it. I'm sorry, Sophia. About your husband's family, he's from the Valdez family group that isn't involved with drug trafficking, right? That's why they were executed."

"Right."

"And how is Anson threatening your husband now?" Jesse asked.

At her startled response, Jesse reassured her. "We know a lot more about your family history, not only what your husband told Mike, but what happened in Mexico when you were kids. What you may not know is Anson's real name is Randolph Buller."

Sophia absorbed that stunning news for a moment. "I've only heard the name, but I know what he helped establish the first drug routes out of Culiacan. People feared him. I thought he was dead."

"That would be Anson's father," Jesse clarified. "Neither is dead. How is he threatening your husband?"

"With the cartel side of his family who would love to eliminate him if they could. So he's got us locked in. If my husband leaves, he says he'll kill our children and me. If I don't do what he wants, he says he'll kill our children and my husband. His family doesn't know he's DEA, but Anson said he'll . . . " Sophia closed her eyes and composed herself. "How did he get so much personal information about us? We are extremely cautious."

Michael turned back to her. "Part of it had to have come from his investigation into me, which started with a psych eval. He was a DIA psychiatrist until earlier this year, so every government employee's psych eval was at his fingertips. He picked and chose who he wanted and why and figured out the weak links. In your case your husband and children. I'm sorry, Sophia, this has encompassed you and your family."

"We could have been targeted no matter what."

"Maybe," Michael said. "Last year we took down most of his organization from inside the government. He's been exposed now, but he's still accessing and using a secure government database. He extorts high level government employees, and supplies guns to our enemies. We didn't complete the job last year. Because we missed him, he's rebuilt the organization."

"I thought I'd heard something about the CIA having an internal security problem."

Michael paused. "How long ago did he take your children?"

"Seventy-seven days ago. It was when my husband was in the hospital. I was with him, and my mother was watching our kids. He threatened her, hurt her and took our kids from their beds."

"Does he provide . . ."

"Proof of life?" Sophia said with some acerbity. "Oh, yes. We have lots of small videos of them eating, sleeping, playing . . . waving at us. They're alive and well . . . somewhere."

Michael and Jesse exchanged a glance. "The timing. That's was right before you and Dani found the weapons facility."

"And after Fi and Sam found the one in Tampa," Jesse said.

"That's also where my husband was when he was hurt. He was investigating a weapons and drugs storage area near Jacksonville," she said.

"I thought Raines had lost it," Jesse said. "So that's why the DEA was reluctant to release their reports. Someone had to cover. That's another leak, a traitor or someone Anson is controlling."

Suddenly several things grew much clearer for Michael.

Sophia redirected. "How do you know he's using a government database?"

"Because it was hacked yesterday by an asset," Michael said, "who followed some of his trails."

"Our asset uncovered a number of locations he and his father use here in Miami, other places in Florida, Georgia and Alabama as well as in most of the major cities throughout the Caribbean," Jesse explained. "We can help you."

Michael took over. "Anson's been very successful threatening people at high levels inside the CIA, FBI and DEA. You don't know who to trust in your organization, but we know someone in the FBI who can help, someone who's been threatened the same way you've been," Michael explained.

"How do you know that?"

"Because he was blackmailed the same way I was and you are. We're both free now and I think we can help you get your children back, Sophia. But I need to make a trip to Langley with another officer here before that can happen. Can you wait a day?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Take this," Jesse said as he handed her a pen. "It's an audio scrambler. Click it on, and you can have a private conversation with your husband that won't be detected. Be sure to click it off; it doesn't have a long use battery but it can give you some peace of mind to be able to talk to him without Anson listening in."

"We've removed all the stuff he planted at our house, we think. We couldn't believe how much was there, but we've wondered if we missed something when he anticipates our every thought or move."

"That's his style. Take this, too," Jesse said, handing her another scanner. "These are still in the product development phase, very powerful and they work."

"Do you have some photos of your children? We'll need those, too." Michael asked. It would be one of the first questions, of course, from the FBI. Sophia produced photos of a small girl and a toddler boy, and told Michael their names. He scanned them and handed the photos back to her.

Jesse escorted Sophia out of the building while Michael watched the watchers who were following her.

When he returned Michael told Jesse "it's time for Dani to pack a bag because we both need to drop the hot potato in Raines lap."

"Mike, I hope you can make this work," Jesse said. "I hope you didn't just promise that woman the sky without being able to deliver."

"I didn't, Jess. We're sticking with mission objective here, only we're going to get Sophia's children back first, protect her family and then we're going after Anson. We're staying focused," Michael said with grim determination. "I hope Raines' former partner will be as much a fan by-passing agency turf wars as we are. Redemption can be quite a carrot at the end of a stick."

"Is that why you're doing this?" Jesse wondered.

"No. I need to neutralize him."

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Raines heard their reports, and didn't waste a moment. He took the newly identified problem straight to his director, who took it straight to the FBI and together they called the DEA and Homeland.

By noon, the work of a criminally talented hacker whose corrosive Void-BOT program was once incarcerated in a secure FBI facility and a money launderer with a highly questionable list of clients held the rapt attention of an audience of the most powerful individuals in American intelligence as they communicated from the secure lines of a respected private security company, from a private office held by a respected but retired CIFA counterintelligence specialist.

If they were going to eliminate the worm holes in U.S. intelligence, they needed the worms, both of whom bore the same name: R.J. Buller. They were to be eliminated or incarcerated.

And, according to Ozzie and Barry's recomendations, they needed to start hiring hackers to work for them because they'd just illuminated how insecure their networks were.

Dani and Michael were seated at the back of the room next to Raines, listening. She had a strong sense that at least two of the three directors would rather have incarcerated Ozzie and Barry for illegal hacking, and apparently Ozzie and Barry had similar thoughts because as soon as they were done speaking, they turned the call over to Jesse who summarized their findings.

By 4 p.m., Michael and Dani were on their way back to Miami with a plan.

#

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#

Jesse wasn't in favor of Dani traveling to Langley, but there were few options. He knew Mike would take care of her and be alert to her well being. His last image of her was from the tarmac, watching her tidy tail end and beautiful legs climb the steps and disappear into a CIA jet sent by Raines to collect them.

After talking with Sophia, they'd put Oswald and Barry back to work, only this time they were hacking into government networks. Sam agreed to nerd-sit and collect and organize information as they found it.

It had been around noon when Raines called which led to Ozzie and Barry's subsequent chat with the CIA, FBI and DEA directors. He'd finished the call, by hitting main points and had been waiting to hear back from either Raines or Dani. He'd spoken with her briefly, enough to know that Raines was being sent back to Miami, that his wife would be accompanying him. Enough to know Dani sounded healthy, energized and glad to be back to work.

The day had started long before the sun started showing its colors, so when Jesse stopped back to his place for a late lunch, he made a quick decision to see Fiona before he went to the airport to pick up Michael and Dani.

Fiona wasn't surprised to see Jesse's face through the peephole, standing outside on her porch step. She let him in. "Are you lonely over there without Dani?" she wondered with a smile for him.

He looked down, deciphered her question behind the question and responded by brushing it off. "Yeah, yeah. How about you? You doing okay with Mike gone? Want to go along when I pick them up at the airport? We've got an hour so before we need to leave."

"Four people? In your car?" Fiona said with a grin.

"No, we can use one of the company's Mercedes."

"Amazing, the resources you have, Jess. Hey, can I get you something to drink?" She started toward the kitchen area. "I just made some . . . ohhhssssahhh . . .ohhhhh."

Fiona thought someone had stabbed her. She doubled over with a piercing pain in her abdomen. With the universal protective gesture of any woman waiting for a child she pressed her hand over her abdomen. She squeezed her eyes shut and blindly grabbed to hold on to something, anything. It turned out to be Jesse who'd responded in the blink of an eye and two long steps to her side. He reached her and kept her upright by sliding his arm around her back at her waist. He steadied her, but it was a losing battle as her knees buckled under the pain.

Tears from the pain and the anguish of realizing what was happening to her came to her eyes.

"Fi? What's wrong? You're . . . let me call . . . "

She couldn't move, she couldn't catch her breath, but she could shake her head no and panted out the word. "No."

She inhaled sharply. "I need the bathroom . . . "

Jesse summed up the possibility of her walking from where they were standing to there and he reached down and slid his arm under her knees to carry her over to the small bath off the living area. He set her down on her feet and opened the door. She held on to the door jamb, then placed her hand on the vanity top before turning around and looking into his worried face.

"I'm pretty sure . . . this is a miscarriage," she said, her face ashen, her eyes huge and dark and leaking tears down her cheeks. "Don't you dare tell . . ."

He saw a new crushing wave of pain wash across her face again as she closed the door in front of him.

He'd known instinctively what was happening before she said anything, and the bathroom was silent except for the muted sounds of Fi's whimpering. It was an agonizing sound that set every one of his nerves on edge.

He paced outside, deciding what to do next. He'd never come in contact with anything like this. After five minutes he rapped softly on the door. "Fi, can I call a doctor for you? Something?"

The door opened. Her complexion was incredibly pale, and she seemed to be, physically, as weak as Jesse had ever seen her. "Fi? Tell me how to help you."

She was holding on to the door jamb for balance. He watched, ready to catch her, because she looked as if she wouldn't be able to stay up right. She pointed. "I need my . . . purse."

He could see she was still having trouble catching her breath. "Fi . . ."

"My phone. The doctor's num . . . "

He looked down at her then picked her up and carried her toward the door. "Hold on. We're going to the ER."

"I still . . . need my purse."

#

#

#

There was a no mobile phone rule in the ER, Jesse learned, so he stepped outside into warm, humid air to check his messages and call Michael. He'd sent a text to him as well as to Dani shortly after Fi was admitted and a nurse went in the room to take her vitals. Neither had replied.

He had Fi's oversized purse tucked under his arm; the weight of it told him what was in it, and he wasn't about to leave it in the room after they'd taken her away for a sonogram or x-ray or something he wasn't quite sure he understood.

His first call went to voice mail, but he wasn't going to leave a message, so he called again. Mike and Dani should have been back by now, and would be wondering why he wasn't there waiting for them. If Mike had been trying to reach Fi, he'd be worried and would probably call him. Finally Mike picked up.

Jesse outlined the problem. "Hey, slow down, Mike. She'll be fine. She is fine. Sorta. I'm not going to leave her . . .okay. Okay. See you soon."

He'd had to explain the situation three times for Mike. Normally, it wouldn't have taken that long to communicate a simple idea, but given the topic, Jesse could understand his panic. If it had been Dani . . .

He froze at the thought. It soared into his brain, clamped on with talons and would not let go.

When Michael arrived, Dani was right behind him. Jesse told Mike where to find Fi, told him they were waiting for another test result before they would release her, and that she was going to be fine. But Mike didn't look like he could focus on anything except getting to Fiona right now. Jesse followed and found him in the hallway, trying to explain he was looking for his wife. The nurse at the station wouldn't allow him entrance to the patient area.

Jesse pushed Fiona's purse at Mike, stepped to the side where he could see into the nurse's station and explained. "Remember me? Yeah, I brought her in, but he's her husband. He needs. . . " The nurse glanced at Michael then Jesse and saw Dani behind him. Apparently the puzzle was solved, because she hit the door release and allowed Michael entrance.

"Room 3B," Jesse called behind him as Michael slung Fi's purse over his shoulder, lifted an arm and waved acknowledgement.

Jesse turned back to Dani and met her pale and somber eyes. He put his arm around her, and she put her good arm around his waist as they walked toward the exit.

She was dressed in business armor, a dark grey skirt and jacket, and black heels that nearly put her on eye level with him. She'd sleeked her hair into a French twist, completing the image of a strong, competent, tough CIA case officer. And she was, except Jesse had seen her too often with her hair down, soft around her face, and it was that image along with another that had recently been introduced to him that held the strongest pull in his imagination.

He released her at the door and allowed her to go first. "My car's over there. I bet you're tired. Want to go home?"

She nodded. "What happened?"

So Jesse told her. When he finished she said, "how terrible for them." And looked out the passenger side window.

That night, after she told him about her trip to Langley, she'd gone to bed first. He told himself he couldn't and shouldn't go in there. He should sleep in the guest room upstairs, and he should leave her alone, but tonight he needed to be next to her and the temptation was too great. He slid in the bed, reached for her and pulled her close before he tugged the lightweight blanket up and over them. She snuggled closer and put her arm across his stomach.

He kissed her forehead and found himself wondering if Dani had ever wanted a child. Until today, until witnessing Fi's terrible, painful loss, he'd never thought about it. That's when he realized he couldn't let Dani go.

It struck him then that he'd never thought about a lot of things until she jumped in front of him to save his life. Maybe that's exactly what she was still doing. He kissed her forehead again and closed his eyes.

#

#

#

The doctor wasn't quite Michael's image of what Fi's physician should look like. He expected someone younger or male. But definitely younger.

She was the same vintage as his mother, with steel and silver hair shaped in a longish crew-cut style. Her earrings had teddy bears swinging inside circles. Her face was round, so were her glasses. She wore turquoise scrubs over a body that looked like it was acquainted with the expensive running shoes on her feet. Her white jacket was adorned with a stethoscope, a hospital nametag and under it, a button pin of child's smiling face with birth and death years on it.

Michael was holding Fiona in his arms when she whisked back the curtain to the examination room. They separated, but he kept his arm around Fiona as the doctor introduced herself to him.

"I think you're going to be fine," she said to Fi and handed her a card. "Call tomorrow and confirm that appointment time with my office, and I'll see you in a week. Call me sooner if you have any unusual bleeding."

She glanced at her watch. "I hope you two don't worry overmuch about this. I understand you're trying to start a family, so I know you're deeply concerned. A loss like this is a loss to your hearts. No one can pinpoint why a five- or six-week pregnancy naturally aborts, but it does. I know this won't take away your sorrow, but this kind of thing is usually a one-time occurrence. There's no known cause, and there's no evidence you did anything to make this happen. You should be able to have as many babies as you want. Just give yourselves a little time to heal before you start again. Do you have any questions?"

The doctor's voice was calm, low and soothing. Michael and Fiona glanced at each other.

"Just one," Fiona said, motioning. "Who is the child on the pin you're wearing."

"My daughter's only child. My only grandson. There was a fight between drug gangs in the mall and he was killed instantly by a stray bullet." The doctor took a deep breath and returned to the business at hand. "If you don't have a question now, you might later. I'm as close as the phone number on that card."

She handed them the release forms and instructions which Fiona held with a clenched fist all the way back to their townhouse.

There was no conversation, there was no soothing the ache.

They didn't talk about anything when they went home, not what Michael had done at Langley, not how Jesse had come to be here at the time Fiona needed him.

She'd gone straight from the car, into the townhouse, to the bath off the bedroom and stood in the shower for so long Michael was sure she was standing in ice water by now.

When he peeked in the room he wasn't surprised to find her sitting on the floor of the shower, letting the water run over her, holding herself, her head down.

He finished removing the rest of his clothes and grabbed for towels he knew they'd need before he stepped into the shower with her and helped her stand. Her hair still held shampoo suds, so he rinsed that and helped her before he turned off the water. He opened the wide glass door and stepped out, and held his hand for her. Wrapping her in a towel he used another to gently dry her hair before he had her sit on the stool lid while he used a blow dryer on her hair.

When she was done, he carried her to their bed and held her until her tears finally stopped, soothing, caressing her. Until her small sobs ceased, until she fell asleep in his arms. And then he felt his own pain release as he held her gently.

He understood everything the doctor said. It made sense. It was logical. He knew she was right, and he guessed this pain would leave them, but tonight, it was too new, too fresh and too painful to not mourn.

#

#

#

"Mikey, get your butt down here. Jesse and Dani just filled me in on your latest harebrained idea. Get down here!"

Sam's message was loud. Michael turned down the volume on his phone, but not before Fiona woke.

It had been more than a week since he and Dani returned from Washington. And, it had been a very productive week. As of yesterday, Raines' former partner led the FBI team that, without a shot being fired, took custody of Sophia Valdez's children away from Anson's hired kidnapping assistants. The children and her husband would be isolated while she completed her task. She worked very much with the same mindset as Michael Westen: Anson Fullerton/R.J. Buller and his father were going down. It was a layered plan, and it would take several weeks to complete.

But the first, most dangerous and most important step needed to be taken in the Dominican Republic. Sophia would participate and then be sent home.

They had accomplished what they thought would never happen: they'd located Anson in Haiti, and his father was in Suriname. The longer they kept them separated, the better.

Raines and Dani would be coordinating the op from Jesse's office; Ozzie and Barry were still unhappy guests of the CIA, but Raines had placated them with offers of cash and commendations.

Fiona slid one hand across Michael's shoulders and he leaned back, then back a bit more for a morning kiss. When his eyes met hers, he smiled. Part of his sweet and sassy wife was back; the mourning mother had found a safe place for her emotions at least temporarily this morning. It had been a day by day thing, and he'd been torn, watching her deal with this and unable to do more than tell her they would be all right, because he believed it. Maybe she did now, too. Maybe that visit to the doctor's office helped her.

She pulled him down to her then pulled him close and sighed against his mouth. "I need you, Michael."

"Ah, Fi, I always need you."

Sam would wait.

#

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#

He was going to leave in the morning and be gone for more than a month. What he would be doing would be dangerous, no matter how skilled or capable he was. Dani didn't know if she could deal with the pain if something happened to him. If it was possible for a heart to explode with need, hers was doing exactly that.

He wasn't Janssen; he was far, far more important to her than Janssen. So much more.

Janssen would never have done any of the deeply personal, loving things Jesse had been doing for her. Never.

Janssen would have flirted with the nurses at the hospital, hired someone to stay with her and brought her flowers she loathed, because he never paid attention to details. Jesse didn't miss anything.

The greatest tenderness she had ever experienced in her life had all been gifts from Jesse Porter, every gift given without cost, every kindness, every thoughtful gesture something personal and of enormous, immeasurable value.

She'd been lying in his bed, this place of comfort and sweetness and gentleness and caring while tears washed her cheeks. When he finally joined her, he sensed her distress before he felt it, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Dani slid her palms under his shirt. She wanted no barriers between them tonight. As soon as he was free of that, she started to pull her own shirt off, and he helped. Finally, flesh to flesh, her heart soared with delight at the exquisite beauty of such a simple thing.

She slid her hands under the waistband of his boxers, and felt him tense and hold his breath, as if he was still weighing the right or the wrong of this.

"Please, Jesse."

He paused, bracing himself up on his elbows, caressing her face with his hands. "Dani . . . if we go here, I don't think I'll be able to let you go . . ."

"Oh, please," she said quietly, hoping he would ignore her tears.

". . . or walk away. Understand?"

"I understand, because I need you so much." She wondered if he could feel her heart imploding.

He lowered his mouth to hers and intoxicated her with gentle kisses.

And then the last of the clothing barriers between them landed on the floor. They were next to each other as he looked down into her face and brushed away her tears as he kissed her lips while turning their bodies together so he could begin gently testing and sweetly teasing, caressing and pleasing the center of her being.

With a simple, easy movement they became one . . . almost.

Jesse's eyes opened, he stopped breathing and stilled his movements as he raised up to look into her face. "Dani? Why . . . " At the small barrier, he paused to take a deep and calming breath. Then another. And one more.

"Jesse. Please."

He rested his forehead on hers lightly. "I don't want to stop. But . . ."

"If you do, I'll die."

His kiss was hungry and gentle and mingled with humor. "I feel the same way."

With her soft hands on either side of his hips, she pulled him toward her, and he entered slowly, fully, his eyes on hers until she closed hers, and then he closed his to the most beautiful sensation he had ever experienced. When he felt her finally relax, he smiled. "Oh, no, no, no. You don't get to rest yet. We have places to go."

He began the sweet torture of sensitizing every part of her body with his kisses, his gentle touches. She wondered if this was what an instrument was like when a musician brought forth beauty and joy. And when he came into her again, he waited, sensing, nudging, slowly and rhythmically moving her toward the crescendo. As her world exploded with the fiery light of a chrysanthemum bursting behind her eyes, he followed her to the most beautiful, loving place he had ever been in his life.

Long moments later he turned on to his back and pulled her up with him.

There were still tears in her eyes, tears for the exquisite beauty of what they had just shared. "I'm sorry, Jesse, I should have-"

He wrapped one palm around the back of her head and pulled her mouth to his for a kiss. "You save my life, you give me this incredible gift and now you're apologizing? Ah, Dani, we got to work on this. What's wrong with you, woman?"

She caught a sob and held it back. "I'm in love with you."

"Good," Jesse said. "Because I'm in love with you, too, in case you've missed that. Did you miss that? Have I been unclear?

She smiled. "I think . . .I hoped too much. I don't want you to leave tomorrow."

"Nope. Day after. Late." He smiled.

She could only smile and kiss him again. And again. And again.

"Wait, wait," he said, grinning. "I need to know about that fiancé."

"And I want to know why you haven't been married for years by now."

He looked into her eyes and spoke softly. "I was waiting, but I didn't know I was waiting for you."

That distracted her completely. It was quite some time later before she had a chance to tell Jesse why he was the first man in her life.

And, it turned out that Michael Westen wasn't the only man who knew how plan ahead or read the Miami-Dade marriage license bureau website. So before Jesse left 36 hours later with Michael and Sophia, Sam, Ryan and Nick, Dani had changed her last name to Porter, and wore a simple gold band on her left finger. It matched the one Jesse wore.

The only person with an opinion was Sam when he realized both Jesse and Mike wore wedding rings. "Good God. It's a disease and it's spreading." He looked at Peterbaugh and Carnahan. "Now don't you two go crazy on me."

Both of the young men turned and looked at Sam. "What are you talking about?" Ryan demanded.

"Wedding rings," Sam grumbled.

"Don't pay attention to him," Michael advised. "He's married, too."

Sam frowned. "Well . . . technically . . . but . . ." Both of the younger men turned and looked at Sam.

"Good one, Mike," Jesse complimented. And that concluded that topic of discussion.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

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In the week before the mission, Fiona remained deeply troubled. The proper name for what she was coming to terms with was a clinical spontaneous abortion. The emotion attached to it seemed agonizingly familiar. Finally she remembered when she'd felt this way before. It was when Michael had left her without farewell in Ireland.

Physically, she was fine. Emotionally, she fought instability. She'd feel him watching her, and when she caught his gaze, he always smiled but she could see his worry. When the first week passed and she visited the doctor, she'd had dozens of questions to ask, all of which were answered. Now, her mind was at rest, but her heart had a small, permanent empty space.

The empty space was a new element woven in the tapestry of their marriage.

She felt it and couldn't identify it, but Michael did when he told her the cells that might have become their child were gone, but the bindings borne of them were permanent.

"We're different now, Fi," he'd whispered against her cheek. "We can't change anything. Not what's in our past, any part of it. This is something between you and me. Only us. This will never leave us, but instead of it making us weaker, it can make us stronger if we let it."

"I know you're right, Michael," she said, looking into the most serious and open expression she'd ever seen on his face.

Her loss, their loss had been transformed into something new, a gift she could not have foreseen Michael would have the power to give. She was humbled by the peace and comfort he'd wrapped her in.

"Forever, Fi."

#

#

#

That word, forever, was smack dab in the middle of something that repeatedly tugged and tugged at Fiona as she watched Jesse and Dani so very cautiously again _not_ interact with one another at the meeting Raines had called early this morning. But when he left the room, her gaze followed him until he turned around at the door for a quick glance back at her. Only her.

After he left with Raines and Michael to look at something in the new com center SecuriCorp set up for their operation, she and Dani were the only people in Jesse's office.

Fi finally decided what to say and spoke softly. "Have you told him how you feel about him?"

It had become extremely obvious to her how deeply Dani had fallen in love with Jesse. After Michael pointed out that it was not a one-sided affair, she'd watched them together, and saw something she'd never seen in Jesse. He could no longer hide the fact that he was intensely aware of her presence, just as he'd revealed a few moments earlier.

"I don't think I can." Dani looked away. She didn't pretend not to know what Fiona was talking about. "I remember what I told you about Janssen, but . . ." She couldn't finish.

Fiona risked a personal comment. "I waited 15 years to tell Michael I loved him, and when I finally did, I didn't _tell_ him, I wrote it. I wish I could change all of that."

Dani glanced at Fi. She looked as if she wanted to reply but words were trapped in her throat.

There was longing and anguish in Dani's eyes, and Fiona sought to reassure her. "It seems like a huge risk," she said softly. "It did to me. But, I hope you will tell him before he leaves with Michael. Jesse's my friend, and I worry about him because he's been obsessing over you since you were in the hospital. He needs to know."

It was the perfect nudge. "Obsessing?"

"Yes. Even Michael noticed."

#

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#

Coming back to earth after visiting heaven wasn't something either Jesse and Dani or Michael and Fiona wanted to do, but Raines' wife had arrived in Miami, and she'd asked them all to come for snacks and drinks before they all had to take on more serious tasks.

Neither Jesse or Michael wanted to go.

"It's my boss' wife who's asked, Jesse. I'm not going to be rude to a lovely woman who is battling cancer."

He checked his watch. "But we just got married, ah seven hours and twenty-two minutes ago."

"We won't be there long," Dani smiled all the way to her toes and slipped into her favorite pair of black heels. "I didn't know you could pout."

"And I didn't know you could-"

She pressed her lips to his and stepped back, thoroughly enchanted with her new married freedom to touch him whenever and how she wanted. It was incredible, the sweetest luxury she could imagine. It would take a lifetime to be filled with enough of him. "We'll be back here before you know it."

He held her lightly but his eyes were serious as his lips brushed hers. "This is forever, Dani."

"I know. Stop it," she said with a sigh against his cheek. "You're melting me."

A few townhouse doors away, Michael kept distracting Fiona with kisses. He was completely dressed, ready to leave and she wasn't quite ready yet, because she'd been delayed. Each time she added an undergarment, a blouse, a skirt, a bracelet, a shoe, he stopped her movement with another kiss.

The one that slid so slowly from her throat to the center of her chest before navigating to the left nearly undid her, which was exactly his plan. She pushed his shoulders back, stepped away, turned around to face him and somehow avoided collapsing under the intensity of his gaze.

"That's enough, Westen."

And then he laughed. "I sure hope this doesn't take long."

#

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#

At the end of their brief evening with their guests, Raines' wife paused while removing an earring. "They look good together, don't they? They seem very much in love."

Raines' eyes narrowed. "The Westens?"

She caressed his cheek with her palm. "Them, too. No, Jesse and Dani."

"What?"

"I knew you missed that," she said. "Probably just as well you're focused on the work ahead."

Twenty-four hours later, Raines leaned back against one of the oversized SUVs that transported their people and gear to the airport and watched discreet farewells between one of his case officers and her husband as they were standing almost in shadow near a loading bay and, on the opposite side, one of his operatives and his wife.

He recognized they would not be here if Westen's wife hadn't turned herself in to the FBI, or that in protecting someone, Pearce opened doors to the deeper investigation. He looked away from the two couples, and down at the concrete where he stood.

Unlike his wife, he'd missed the Pearce and Porter thing, which gave him a new concern for her objectivity and ability to keep her mind on the op he expected her to run.

Worse, he had his own private life to worry about. She was hiding it, but his wife was not doing as well this trip despite the new therapy she'd received outside Arlington. She kept assuring him she was fine, but he could see the pain in her eyes and remained unconvinced when she told him she was fine and to stay focused on his people.

Tonight, the teams were heading out together. They'd part ways in the Bahamas.

Axe, Peterbaugh and Carnahan had chartered a deep sea fishing trip with a Seguro yacht; Westen, Porter and Valdez would be flying on to Santo Domingo to meet the real estate representative whose primary employment was with the Sinaloa Cartel. It was in a hotel setting where Sophia was to identify Westen to a Russian mob member; Porter's presence was intended to deliberately provide confusion and backup.

All their bases were covered. Raines' former partner was running the FBI op from the location where the Valdez children had previously been held. The elderly couple who aided the kidnappers and acted as the childrens' caretakers had been coerced by Fullerton. No matter. They were charged with a federal crime, but their cooperation could play a role in the disposition of the case against them. When Fullerton checked in, they'd answer and tell him what he needed to know. The FBI was there to make sure it happened.

The initial steps for the operation had actually been taken last night while he and his wife were entertaining his small group of incredibly capable, talented and keyed up people, anxious for the operation to begin. Or, as his wife pointed out, anxious to return to their private lives before the operation started.

He saw Axe leave the plane and motion for Porter and Westen.

All the individual agents and personnel Anson Fullerton was blackmailing, people who had been located and identified by Oswald Patterson and Barry Burkowski, were currently under surveillance. For that portion of the operation, each agency provided a set of eyes on each person named on Fullerton's lists.

Last year, in a similar situation, they'd blanket-arrested office-bound compromised personnel; this year, they didn't want to tip their hand. Instead they planned to follow those individuals and watch to see who else they linked to and when. It created a scenario for additional arrests.

With the snoopers being snooped on from inside three separate agencies, it not only spread the work load, it made every agency, not only the CIA, responsible for the solution to the security breaches. Raines was convinced it was a much smarter plan, even if it'd been a royal pain in the ass to make happen.

He actually had Pearce, er, Porter to thank for the idea, but the implementation was his job, and that had been tedious, political and time-consuming before agreement was finally reached at the highest levels.

Vibration and sound pierced introspection as he watched as the plane taxi down the runway, lift-off and disappear into the night sky. As Pearce and Westen's wife approached, he straightened up and invited Pearce to ride with him if Mrs. Westen would agree to drive the other vehicle back to SecuriCorp.

Fiona provided him with a snappy two-fingered salute he interpreted as the sarcastic gesture she intended it to be. He had to smile.

Once they pulled away from the private airfield, he glanced over at Dani.

"My wife tells me that I should congratulate you, Pearce. So, congratulations on your marriage, but I'm going to keep calling you Pearce, if that's all right with you. We don't need another level of confusion."

"Thank you. It makes perfect sense. Pearce will be fine, sir."

"Marriage changes the way you relate to a loved one in the field," he said.

"You'll be running that op, sir."

"Yes, but you know how that works. This one's your husband, not your fiancé."

She was silent for a long moment before she replied. "He'll be fine, sir."

"Dani, it's not him I'm concerned about. I want to know you can do this."

She didn't hesitate. "I can and I will."

#

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#

Raines returned to SecuriCorp's com room, one especially outfitted for their needs. He sat on one side of the unit; Pearce on the other. Locating this portion of the operation was the true prize. Being able to run this from SecuriCorp added a layer of security around the heart of their work.

Raines was irritated that he couldn't do that from his own office here in Miami. There was a leak, and he was anxious to identify who, how many and where they were operating from. Things would start popping once someone raised the panic flag after they realized Peterbaugh and Carnahan disappeared into the night.

For uncovering his Miami leaks, he expect Patterson and Burkowski to be doing the jobs they were hired to do, never mind the gentle coercion he'd used to hire them. He was beginning to believe it when Oswald told him the CIA needed true geeks, not the pretend ones they apparently were using.

The two of them had found more information than he'd thought possible, and they'd been a lot more cooperative once Porter's company stepped in on their behalf.

The tempestuous past relationship between some of SecuriCorp's founders and the CIA had made negotiations interesting and tough. Frankly, Raines had been surprised by what the CIA had agreed to, but everyone involved grasped the necessity of eradicating the clandestine network Fullerton/Buller had built inside each federal agency.

The finger-pointing came back to the CIA every time.

Why hadn't they completed the job they started last year? Why had they allowed it to return with a vengeance and had grow exponentially to encompass most of the intelligence community?

Raines thought that involved too much blaming the victim for the crime, but he also saw that failure weighed just as heavily on Westen as it did himself. All they could do now was finish the job they'd started. It was now laser sighted in on two small, quiet, lethal, surgical strikes.

To protect themselves, SecuriCorp agreed to loan their facilities and the services of Jesse Porter to the CIA under some stringent guidelines. They required a waiver of release and liability for the corporation as well as Porter.

The corporation also represented the other private individuals involved, and negotiated liability releases for Oswald, Barry and Fiona Westen. Raines hadn't expected that, but he'd been impressed the company valued Porter's services enough to take those highly unusual additional steps.

It was 0100 when they returned to SecuriCorp and opened all their com lines to begin check-ins.

Raines took people. Pearce checked agencies and the new team member, the US Coast Guard. After the initial verification, they'd run silent and track.

The USCG was a key player for interdicting drug and human trafficking in the Caribbean and Gulf of Mexico and were informed of both sides of the CIA operation, from the Sinaloa attempt at creating a new drug route from Mexico to Venezuela and Columbia, and locating a previously unknown but long-operating drug and gun running operation from the Alabama and Florida coasts through the Caribbean.

He was running the op for Westen, Porter and Valdez; Dani was running Axe, Peterbaugh and Carnahan's operation.

They'd be working side by side, sharing information while Westen's wife, across the room, monitored FBI communications between his former partner and the kidnappers under house arrest.

He'd had an interesting conversation with Mrs. Westen regarding her status as an asset and what she might do to help, especially since she'd actually acquired a CIA security clearance several months earlier. The woman was not without talents; there was no sense in wasting them or her.

#

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#

They'd gotten in late, checked in with Dani before they got to the hotel and put on their we're-going-to-have-a-good-time faces. The hotel booked was a little out of the way, ideal for two college buddies and their co-worker who were taking a fishing trip.

They'd been backstopped with travel documents, passports and IDs. Sam would be their reluctant co-worker who would become increasingly agitated the farther they traveled from land. Nick and Ryan would be fraternity brothers who hadn't quite left their college years behind. They'd be keeping the captain and his mate busy with antics and incompetence.

In open seas, Sam would discover he didn't like all that water, and he'd gradually freak out, which would allow him to stay in the interior cabin and have the time and space to investigate the most likely of Fullerton/Buller's yachts in his commercial fleet for anything that would allow the Coast Guard a reason to board. He would also be the only one among them armed; his baggy shorts and Tommy Bahama shirt would hide his weapon while neither Ryan or Nick would be able to conceal a weapon with the wind on deck.

Sam had worked with both men for two weeks prior, and hoped they'd managed to transform themselves into the operatives they needed to be on this one. The single biggest problem for two guys from tactical support was dealing with losing their weapons and thinking on their feet. He was pretty sure they could do it. He hoped so.

This mission was well planned. The level of attention to detail was exactly the precision it required to act quickly and efficiently.

He looked at his fluorescent watch face. The damned thing was supposed to be waterproof; he doubted that, just as he doubted this would end peacefully. Anyone who had been as successful as R.J. Buller had been in evading discovery, awareness or capture for decades would be wiliest of opponents.

Sam figured he'd end up in the water sometime, somehow. If it was a mission on the water, he always did. He hated being without his Luminox. Unfortunately, it'd be a dead giveaway that he wasn't afraid of he water.

Like every other mission that began this early in the day, he had not slept. He'd lain in the bed and worked through plans, figured alterations and worked through those.

Peterbaugh and Carnahan snored. When morning came, Sam was ready. Edgy. Anxious. Damn, but he wanted this over.

The gods were listening.

The sun was barely above the horizon when they approached the charter yacht. The breeze was warm and the gulls were squawking and yakking. Sam squinted in the dim light. Damn, if that wasn't the old guy on deck. Buller himself. This would require some finesse.

Buller's location was supposed to be south of here. Somebody missed something somewhere. Time to readjust to circumstances.

Peterbaugh and Carnahan were yawning and scratching. "Heads up, guys," Sam said in low voice. "Buller senior's on the boat. Change of plans."

Someone from the boat called down to them. "Findley? Party of three?"

"Hey, yeah, that's us!" Peterbaugh called. "Man, are we looking forward to this!"

"Come on up and stow your gear," the voice called back.

Sam walked behind them and instructed. "Nick, take all our bags and stash them. Get your guns. We're going out; when we can't see land, we take 'em. We're just gonna roll with the punches."

Ryan answered. "Got it."

It wasn't a plan that could work because the gods also had a sense of humor.

As soon as they were all on board, it was clear to Sam he'd been made.

The captain was explaining how lucky their party was because the man who had put Seguro Charter Fishing on the map was with them this morning, and he had an affinity for finding the biggest fish in the ocean.

Buller the senior, was a short, wiry, over-tanned little gizzard of a fisherman drug and gun runner with sun bleached blond and white hair and skin like wrinkled tobacco.

He grinned when Sam extended his hand. "Chuck Findley."

He reached under his shirt for a weapon. "Ha. Axe."

And it was easy after that.

Sam pulled back and put a solid fist into his jaw. Buller dropped, and Sam picked up the .45 he dropped. It was amazing, but Sam suffered no remorse for hitting a senior citizen.

It took the captain and first mate a blink or two longer to figure out this wasn't a fishing expedition, but by then, Peterbaugh and Carnahan also reacted quickly, and had relieved them of their weapons and were holding them at gunpoint.

"Zip ties in the side pocket in my bag, I'll get 'em," Sam said, as he retrieved the bindings. Moments later, the captain, mate and the founder of Seguro Charter and Yacht Storage, a man who had successfully remained hidden for nearly three decades while running a gun and drug running business, were tightly bound at the hand and foot and separated.

Sam started the engines and headed to open sea. Once land disappeared, he slowed and called Dani.

Decided to shorten the trip," he said. "We got Buller, one of his captains and first mates and his boat. Call the Coast Guard." He gave her the coordinates.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Took an opportunity when it presented itself. I know it'll speed up the rest of the operation, but I'm tired of the damned two-step the agency wants to take with these bastards. I wasn't going to let him go."

"Ten four," Dani replied.

When the Coast Guard arrived, the sun was still low in the morning sky. Buller and his crew were taken into custody, and the yacht was thoroughly searched for a second time.

Peterbaugh had shortened the process by conducting his own search while Sam piloted the boat and Carnahan kept watch on the prisoners.

The boat was heavy with cash, cocaine and shoulder-fired SAMs. It was the weaponry that was the most startling and troublesome discovery.

Sam, Nick and Ryan had boarded Coast Guard cutter to talk to Dani from its com room and await instructions while the contraband/evidence was photographed and removed from the yacht.

The multi-agency task force would be heading town the chain of islands, following the Seguro Yacht storage and repair locations, a task which Sam dramatically altered by his quick intercept of Buller. Now, the entire process took off and speeded up to not alert the others in the Buller organization.

The second time Sam reported in to Dani, he explained why he'd made the decision he had and knew it would necessitate the DEA and Coast Guard mobilizing the next unit quickly. When she told him to wait for further instructions, it was the tone of her voice that told him something else was happening.

When she came back on the line, she told him he, Carnahan and Peterbaugh would be picked up by helicopter and taken back to port where they would be met by a DEA team for and would join support on the Santo Domingo operation.

The message from Raines was worse. "Westen has been taken hostage and Valdez is injured, and we've lost contact with her and Porter."

Sam hung his head. "Crap."

#

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#

Sophia Valdez was hiding an injury and trying to blend in on the streets. She'd left the high end hotel and worked her way back to a very different area. Blending in wasn't working. Too many cautious looks were coming her way. Walking so far, her business clothing and heels were extremely out of place. She found a tiny place that rented rooms, and was pleased to find the proprietor more interested in the US dollars she carried than the pesos she also carried, when it came to her interest in seeking privacy.

The room was small, sparsely furnished, with a window over a roof to the street level. If worse came to worse, she could use that. At least it had its own bathroom inside the room; what a tremendous blessing that was to be able to use that instead of the communal bath on the lower level.

She dropped her oversized bag on the bed and reached for a package of sanitized hand towels, opened it and pressed it to the wound under her arm. She wasn't sure whose shot that was, but she'd been nicked and needed to stop the bleeding. On top of the sanitized towel, she opened and pressed an entire package of facial tissues to absorb the blood. If she kept pressure on it with her arm, she should be all right.

Next order of business was the phone. She'd called in once, but now she debated. Deciding against that, she dumped the entire contents of her bag on the bed to see what useful thing she had there besides her .357 and an extra clip.

The security leak was fully functional, she realized.

No sooner had they arrived at the hotel lounge and started talking to their contact, the real estate agent working for the Sinaloa cartel, when two Russians approached their table.

Whoever they were, Michael recognized them immediately and addressed them in Russian after they spoke to him. Sophia had no idea what was being said, except the older of the two switched to English for her and told her not to worry, he was just removing CIA trash.

When Westen stood, he attempted to take the younger one's weapon, but it discharged and he was hit below his ribs on the left. He doubled over, whispered "run" to Dani and allowed himself to be led away. Porter had excused himself from the table to take a call, so she had no idea where he was now.

Sophia knew she needed to find Jesse Porter. She had bandaged herself and attempted to change her appearance enough to so search for him when she heard him rapping on her door. Thank goodness, he knew the language well enough to butcher it. When he cracked open the door, the proprietor was in front of him.

She assured him he was who she was waiting for.

Bottom of Form


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

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If he had thought about it for longer than 10 seconds, the last two people Michael expected to see in Santo Domingo were Oscar Markov and Ivan Boskov.

Not surprising was Oscar's ill temper and long memory. They'd only seen each other once, briefly, because when Michael arrived at Ivan Boskov's Miami office, Oscar left. Escaped, actually.

Michael would have thought, by now, the incident had been lost as a bad memory for either man. Or that Ivan would have followed his later suggestion for the .45 in his hand and used it to end his errant spy problem, since Oscar was determined to kill to Sam's friend Beatriz whose reporting inadvertently outed him.

Obviously, Ivan had not selected the .45 option, which made their pairing troubling.

Michael told Anson, because the annoying tagalong bastard pressed him, all Oscar wanted was for the world to make sense, to know his sacrifice had been worth something for him and his country.

It wasn't different from what Michael wanted for himself.

Michael wanted this operation to be over; he wanted his new life with Fiona. And that, he realized, was why retirement as an operative was his next step.

If he lived that long.

Once tomorrow became more enticing than today, an operative lost his ability to be fully effective. He lost the microsecond critical in timing, in judgment, in observation. It didn't mean he was less skilled or less intelligent, it meant he had to work differently because he'd lost his edge by choice.

Inwardly, he grimaced. He was turning into Raines.

Michael touched Sophia's elbow to alert her to the changing dynamic. They were seated in the open air lounge talking to the Sinaloa contact, the woman who was to facilitate a real estate acquisition. Michael noticed she appeared to be looking for someone.

He glanced the direction where Jesse had gone; he was nearby, taking a call from Raines.

When Ivan greeted Michael, he knew he was in trouble and so did Sophia. With a small movement, he indicated she should move away. She saw, understood and ignored.

Ivan clapped a hand on his shoulder; Oscar appeared on his opposite side. He was indeed up for auction, Michael thought, and he didn't expect it happening this quickly.

He'd warned Jesse that predictable Russians liked the flourish of unpredictability, but until he saw Russians who should have been at the intelligence office masquerading as a security center inside Dyban Industries, he knew how unpredictable this situation had become.

"My friend Dmitri, Dmitri Malkin. How good to see you," Oscar said clamping on to his arm while shoving the barrel of a gun against his ribcage. Ivan checked his right arm and used his left hand to remove the .45 Michael had tucked at the small of his back before sliding it inside his suit coat pocket.

"It's my lucky day," Michael said in Russian, to which Ivan laughed. "No, it's ours, Westen."

Michael saw Jesse turn, assess and start walking toward them. Oscar saw him, too, and used the barrel of the gun to indicate Michael should stand. With his hands free, Michael rose and with a lightning-swift motion, latched onto Oscar's wrist and twisted, using thumb pressure to wrest the gun from Oscar's hand. It discharged, and Michael felt the percussion pressure in his ears and then the cold burn and thump of the shot below his ribcage. Ivan lost his grip momentarily, and the small, intense struggle changed when Oscar's weapon discharged again with Michael's hand locked on his, only this time it was Sophia who flinched.

Michael sought her face. "Run, go," he urged.

She turned and began moving away as Jesse appeared. When Ivan turned and pointed his weapon at him, Jesse held his hands at waist height, his fingers spread, his palms open and stopped moving.

Michael was struggling with pained, uncoordinated movements to remove his suit jacket as Ivan and Oscar pushed and shoved and moved him toward a waiting limo. By the time he got there, he was able to wad his jacket and press it against his waist to staunch the blood flow. He couldn't feel his back, so he didn't' know if the bullet had gone through or if it was tumbling around inside, shortening his life.

He was shoved into the limo and found himself facing two more Russians and Anson Fullerton/R.J. Buller.

The Russians were animated, arguing. Michael knew Fullerton didn't speak the language, something he could exploit.

"He's wounded, how could you let this happen?"

"He fought me. You didn't expect him to come easily, did you? With the woman there?"

"Alexi said he was not to be harmed!"

"There's blood on the leather! Alexi will not like that!"

Anson studied Michael and the blood on his hands, his jacket, his pants, the car seat.

"What are they saying?" Anson asked Ivan who chose not to reply.

"Michael?" he demanded. "What are they saying?"

"I don't know what they're saying, but my wife says you fight like a girl."

Ivan laughed.

Michael took that as a positive sign just before he passed out.

#

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Kimberly Danielle Pearce Porter was laser focused on her problem: Locating Michael Westen and getting him back.

Once, she told him a useful lie about a dog. She'd never had a dog, but she did have a bulldog-like determination she'd carried throughout her professional life. She'd thought the burned spy Max befriended was not to be trusted, and she'd been right in the wrong way.

Now, Michael and Fiona Westen, two people she once held in the least regard, had become the kind of friends she would go to the wall for.

Dani glanced at Fiona and grasped her contained, controlled panic about her husband who not only was injured, but he'd been kidnapped by at least four Russians.

Jesse reported the startling news before he'd gone looking for Sophia, then called back when he'd located her. Currently, they were in a DEA-operated storage building near the port, waiting for Sam, Ryan and Nick to arrive momentarily. A DEA team was on site, and Dani had been effective in dealing with their contact here.

Fiona's appraisal of Michael's kidnapping was darkly positive. "Somehow, he'll make it work," she said, "if he can. He wants to immobilize Anson."

"If it's getting Anson or removing Michael, we take Michael, and get Anson another day," Dani said. "Agreed?

"Yes." Fiona took a deep breath and met Dani's gaze. "I can't lose him."

"I know. I know."

When Raines had left, clearly emotionally torn between his work and personal life, Dani assured him she would handle the op.

Without asking, Fiona collected Barry and Oswald from an exterior office in SecuriCorp and brought them into the com room. They were monitoring the agents in the CIA and DEA that Ozzie already identified as info leakers, people most likely being blackmailed by Fullerton.

Fiona wanted ears on their working chatter, and wanted them to be aware of what she and Dani were doing. This way, they could also keep track of the FBI watching Sophia's kid-less kidnappers. Anson shouldn't check in with them, but if he did, they would know it.

Moving Ozzie and Barry did not follow security protocols, but Fiona had little respect for CIA protocol when it didn't make sense, and Dani had no objection. Separating Ozzie and Barry from them had never made sense to her. Also, the work area Oswald and Barry now had gave them broader access to monitoring the previously identified problems in all three agencies. With Buller Senior captured, they were following the last worm who'd riddled security in three agencies, and those they passed along information to.

Raines left Dani the contact info, so when she was prepared to move on the arrests in all three agencies, she would be able to.

Fiona also asked Barry to track Jesse's credit card purchases, and see if anyone was watching him that way. Ozzie and Barry were talking about the FBI mole activity when Fiona frowned and looked at Dani. "What's the problem?" she said, reading her expression.

"A shot on the left side means he could be hit in the stomach, pancreas, spleen or kidney. Depending on caliber, and the angle of the shot, he could actually . . . "

"He could die. I know. Just like you nearly died from blood loss, so don't try to cheer me up," Fiona said with grim humor, "because you're not any good at it."

Dani grimaced. "Sorry, I was thinking out loud."

"Don't stop," Fiona advised. "We all knew this could happen to any of them."

Fiona refused to give into panic.

_Refused._

She needed every one of her senses, abilities and skills fully functional if she was to help Michael. She knew Dani understood and watched as she tried to reach Sam who wasn't responding at the moment.

Fiona and Dani assumed both ops had gone south so fast because previously identified leaks had either sprung new leaks or they'd missed someone.

"It all happened so fast," they heard Ozzie telling Barry. "We missed someone. We need to go looking."

"Maybe we missed more than one?" Barry surmised.

"Well, find them," Fiona said. "Michael's life may depend on it."

When Raines left, Dani opted not to report his absence or the reason for it. When her line blinked, alerting her to incoming communication, she opened it so Fiona could hear, too.

"Dani, we're watching and they're looking for someone," Jesse reported.

"Keep watching. Sam, Nick and Ryan should be there in ten minutes or less. We're still focusing on leaks. Both ops went bad too fast that we need to know who made that happen.

"How's Fi with that?"

"My idea," Fiona spoke up. "Guns blazing now could get Michael killed. We need to blind them, and stop feeding them info."

"I can't believe you just said that, Fi."

#

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#

When Michael awoke, he felt as if he was floating above himself.

Anson was there, speaking to a Russian. Or trying to speak to a Russian. Someone, a woman, was providing an inaccurate translation of the conversation for him.

Michael slit open an eye and tried to figure out where he was. He could hear the sound of water. He could see Fiona's face. Was she here? Swearing. Foul, Russian swear words. He heard that. Then . . . nothing.

The next time he came to, someone was speaking to him in Spanish. Cool, dry fingers touched his throat, his hand. Someone shone a light in his eyes. He squinted and tried to move, but his limbs felt so heavy he couldn't lift them.

He figured out it was a doctor who was speaking Spanish.

Michael did not speak it. He could grasp basic English-like words but it cluttered his grasp of the Cyrillic-based languages of ancient Greek origins that Russians spoke. Why he could grasp easily what so many found so difficult was a mystery he had no interest in solving, not when those around him were proficient in the romantic languages. One of his captors lapsed into Spanish with the doctor. It was an odd linguistic note, Spanish spoken with a Russian inflection.

Michael understood they wanted him alive. He wasn't sure what the gunshot hit; he was fairly certain it wasn't his stomach, or was it? He was cognizant and clear thinking. Or was he dreaming that? Maybe, his eyes were closed. He moved his hand over his stomach and felt a bandage.

"What happened?" he asked in Russian. His shirt was gone. He had no idea how much time had passed since he lost consciousness, or where he was.

"Doctor removed the bullet," the reply came, also in Russian. "And stopped the bleeding."

Unfortunately, Michael now found himself in a similar position to the Yakuza mobster they'd captured last year when he refused to allow his mother, posing as a nurse, to inject him with a pain killer. As the doctor approached with an injection, Michael reacted instinctively and grasped his wrist to hold it away.

His captor laughed.

"It's an antibiotic, fool. Die, and I will watch with happiness," Ivan said in English.

"You must have changed your mind," Michael said, releasing the doctor's wrist, allowing the injection.

"About what?"

"You said you didn't like my friend."

Ivan's laugh was anything but cheerful. "You said you didn't either, but we have much in common, Westen, besides you. We want many of the same things."

Michael responded in Russian. "He breaks promises."

The Russian laughed again. "So do I."

"Be careful, Ivan, if you work with Anson and the cartels," Michael warned him in Russian. "He'll steal your cash and your guns and take them for his own."

"We know."

Michael watched the Russian for a moment before he lost consciousness and saw the folder. The image slipped and slid, coming and going. He felt queasy. It was an average blue and green bound file, not very thick, but it was stuffed completely full of nightmares.

Michael read it and had tried to hide it from Fiona, but she saw it and read it, too. In educating themselves about the Sinaloa and Los Zetas cartels, the CIA folder on cartel sicarios was an extremely disturbing and repulsive bible of atrocities.

He warned Dani when he passed the file on to her, but she was fully aware of the terror cartels harvested and put on display. The macabre report illustrated the level nauseating and terrifying actions sicarios used to obtain information from their victims. And sometimes, like Sophia's husband's family could attest, they purposefully thwarted the law enforcement by removing the heads of their victims, or hands, or fingers with identifying prints.

#

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Sophia had been waiting and watching as the CIA and DEA teams planned their next moves when she saw the little man of her husband's night sweats arrive with two other men.

This _sicario_ was a man honored by the Sinaloas for his ability to obtain information from the most stubborn in very little time. She quickly alerted the teams waiting and watching the building where Westen had been taken. She discussed it with Jesse, and they debated, but in the end they called the change of circumstance back to Miami.

#

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Fiona was focusing on Michael's tracker. It had not moved in some time. He was either dead or passed out.

She prayed he was passed out. It was Raines' wife who was currently responsible for providing the highly valuable technological assistance for the operation. The experimental technology she'd developed that her company made available to SecuriCorp would be thoroughly vetted during this operation.

The CIA would have considered it risky technology, but private enterprise had already tested it and wanted real world field results to sell it.

The trackers she'd brought along were something entirely new. Lightweight, nearly undetectable by current scanning and disruption methods, yet powerful and accessible through some newly developed satellite technology. Dani made sure Michael and Jesse both had them in their shoes and the back of one of Sophia's pierced earrings had been affixed with one.

Michael had asked to have access to several of the smallest, thinnest and most easily applied. Parents were a potential consumers for the product, but the lightweight, nearly invisible and undetectable features made them ideal for use by intelligence agencies.

"Fi, what have you got over there?" Dani wondered, listening to low level chatter with Fi, Ozzie and Barry.

"Ozzie's found three active links, one at the CIA office here that links to a DEA location in Key West and other is across the street from the grannie the FBI is keeping an eye on in case Anson calls in to check on Sophia's kids."

"Fiona, come quick!" Dani said.

On the oversized screen before her, and the identical one Fiona could see, two small blinking lights appeared. The stationary one was Jesse; the moving one was Michael. Dani was still watching her map, listening for communications. Similar to being an air traffic controller, she had to see where everyone was, offer instructions and anticipate problems.

"Can we tell if he's walking or being moved?"

"Just a sec, let's see if he activated . . . yes. He's good. He's got the thin trackers on three of his captors. Good job, Michael," Dani praised.

"Look," Fiona said.

"That's Jesse, there's Sam and the team. They're right behind them. I think you're about to get your husband back."

Fiona couldn't spare a look away from the overlay on the wide screen.

That's when Jesse reported the news no one wanted, about the arrival of a Sinaloa sicario whose lethal actions were only surpassed by his savagery.

They were standing down and reassessing.

#

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One of the flaws in co-opting a second identity and having a father whose physical appearance was nearly identical to his own, was how easily Anson Fullerton/R.J. Buller could be incorrectly identified.

The senior Buller was unmistakable with his sun bleached hair and ruddily tanned skin, and so was the younger. Senior had been operating inside Mexico for decades, trading guns and drugs, supplying transportation.

In the last few years, he'd grown as greedy as his offspring, and had started selling information on Sinaloa activity to Los Zetas.

Then he decided to bring the Russians in and sell them information, too.

In the senior Buller's world, everything had a price, but he should have known better. Russians never liked being played as fools by Americans, even if the American wasn't particularly loyal, patriotic or steadfast.

His father used his identity; they swapped their identities when it suited their purposes. From a distance, they looked like the same person. So there were two of them, but there was only one being held by the Russians who discovered one thing they could reach an agreement on with the Sinaloa cartel: the man who served as a traitor to both. Or, his son.

Judging from the look of pure terror on Anson Fullerton/R.J. Buller's face, he knew who the sicario was, too.

The sicario took a pair of pliers and used it to break one of Anson's thumbs. He cried in pain. The men with him bagged his head, handcuffed him and led him away.

The woman who had been Michael and Sophia's Sinaloa contact turned to the Russians. "This was a good trade. You have your prize, we have ours."

#

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Hector Oaks sent his final message to Anson. The newest information he had from the DEA put their team on his doorstep in Santo Domingo in the next 3 minutes. What happened after that was not his concern.

For a decade he'd led a double life until last year when Westen and another agent arrested him. When he wouldn't talk, they threatened him with Westen, but after speaking to the man with the frightening reputation, he found his hope restored. Briefly.

But, no longer. He was done now. Anson couldn't know his parents had released the Valdez children to the FBI a week ago. His parents would be incarcerated for their roles in the kidnapping and he couldn't help them any other way.

Hector had no reason to live.

His wife and daughter had been killed in an accident after he'd given the CIA Kessler's location following Westen's interrogation. He'd been hopeful but that ended when the DIA shrink arranged for him to slip away from the psychiatric care he'd been incarcerated. Anson had taken a sick delight in manipulating Hector for his computer skills. He was the one who'd arranged for his wife and daughter's death; next would be his elderly parents.

Hector could do this no longer. He'd sent a detailed confession to several high level managers inside the DEA and CIA.

A lethal nap was his personal choice to end pain. He took the tablet in his mouth, then his last sip of cola and sat in the lounger, and put the foot rest up. He hoped he would see his wife and daughter soon. He closed his eyes.

#

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#

Barry grinned. "That's my guy. George Anders. He went underground for a while but he's back, and look who he's doing business with? A whole bunch of Russians. We may want to rethink who you stash cash with, Oz. Looks like George is a little off."

"We're a little off," Ozzie replied.

Fiona nearly choked on the sip she'd just taken from her bottle of water. Barry wasn't talking to her, he was talking to Ozzie. "Did you say George Anders?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I know a George Anders. Tell me about your George."

"He's kinda . . . sleazy, if I do say so myself, but that's not his charm. He's an excellent, private banker. Hides money for everyone, including me. He just got back after a long vacation."

"Back?"

"He's in the Caymans, Fi. All the good bankers are. You know that."

She wasn't done. "And you know him because . . . ?"

Barry sighed. "Just because you've incarcerated me and the CIA has coerced me into sticking around here doesn't mean I stopped taking care of my business. My clients demand the best in personal service and I provide it. I was just checking on some stuff for Oz."

She ignored Barry's assessment of being coerced. Raines was paying him and Ozzie handsomely for their services. "Can you tell from that . . . who his clients are?"

"You mean, like their names?"

"And account numbers."

"It'll take a while, but probably. Is this important?"

#

#

#

Sam had waited as long as he was going to wait. Screw the DEA and their decision making processes. Let 'em call HQ. He didn't work for them or the CIA, well, not really. That was his friend inside, and he was injured.

He looked at Peterbaugh and Carnahan. "I'm not waiting for these guys to make a decision. We know who's there and what's where. Let's go."

Ten minutes later, after they'd searched everything they could search, he called Jesse.

"They're gone, Jess. Call Dani and see if that fancy tracker is still working," he said as Peterbaugh motioned for him to come over to a small box like room. He shone his Streamlight on the problem: shoes, bloody pants, bloody jacket and a bloodier shirt, all clothing Jesse confirmed Mike had been wearing earlier in the day.

Carnahan interrupted. "Where are the DEA people?"

"Behind us, arguing about what to do next."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Carnahan said. "There are enough drugs and guns stored here to keep them busy counting for weeks."

#

#

#

"They're on their way back to Miami," Dani told Jesse. "The trackers are active. That's strange. And it looks like Michael is with them. You need air support."

"Could you tell how bad he's hurt?" Fiona asked.

"Yeah, Fi. It's bad."

#

#

#

On the up side, he was back in Miami.

On the down side, he was a hostage of a Russian black ops team.

"You remember me?" Alexi asked, holding the radio transmitter with a deadman's switch in his hand. He waved it in front of Michael's face.

Michael's hands were tied behind his back. He was on his knees, with only his boxers and a scuba diver's belt wired full of C-4 packs between himself and the outside world.

He was in pain and knew he could not move, but his mind was clear enough to realize this was about revenge, retribution.

The Russians were taking great amusement that Michael Westen, the one man brigade who brought so much havoc and death to the Spetsnaz, had been flown from Santo Domingo to a private Dyban Industries airfield in Miami in his underwear. He'd been barely conscious, but aware enough to know what was being said around him.

He'd passed out several times; no matter how he fought for awareness, he couldn't maintain it. He thought he heard the Spanish doctor once or twice, but he was cognizant now.

Michael grew intensely aware of the grit of the concrete under his bare knees, the sun burning into his back and shoulders, the binding cutting into his wrists, the crippling pain in his abdomen.

The scenario was eerily familiar, a dramatic re-staging of a moment Alexi needed to erase. It was taking place in the same parking lot Michael himself had chosen two years before for Alexi's humiliation.

The Russian had changed his appearance dramatically since then. Gone was the head full of curly hair. His scalp was shaved in an obvious attempt to induce a harsher image more in line with his Spetsnaz training.

Unless he was mistaken, the Russian black ops team with him had familiar faces. Funny, he thought they were all in prison since they'd been arrested at Congressman Cowley's home two years ago.

"You should not have told me you shot my brother," Alexi said. "Now you will die."

"If you are in business with the Sinaloa cartel, you will have the same opportunity," Michael said.

"We are friends, for now. You, Vesten, you are enemy. You vill die here. Your friends vatch."

"My friends?" Michael looked beyond Alexi's shoulder.

"I invite them. See?"

He stepped away from Michael, until he could see Fiona and Sam in front of him. they were being held at gunpoint by Alexi's comrades. Which meant Jesse was somewhere near. And Dani. And maybe Peterbaugh and Carnahan, he hoped.

Alexi stood straighter and moved behind Michael. He held the switch so everyone could see the power he welded.

"Now, I give you Michael Vesten," Alexi said with a certain flair. "Lots of little pieces."

He stepped back, and put some distance between himself and Michael.

"Better move back a little more, Alexi," Sam yelled the advice. "If you've got as much C-4 as that belt looks like it has, you and your friends are going to be as splattered as us. Isn't that what you want? For all of us to die together?"

"You deserve it," Alexi muttered, backing away another step.

The Russians holding guns on Sam and Fiona also backed away, perhaps more than Alexi would have wanted.

"Please . . . " Fiona begged. "I just want to say good bye to him."

Sam looked at Fiona then addressed Alexi. "Aw come on, Alexi, we let you live. Let his girl give him a kiss."

Alexi held up the transmitter. "Go, kiss. Then good bye."

Fiona walked slowly then dropped to her knees in front of Michael and used the small, surgically sharp blade she'd palmed to slice through the wired connectors on the dive belt while kissed his hot, dry lips at the same time. When she was clear, she raised her arm so Sam could see which triggered the rest of the team.

Carnahan and Peterbaugh told Alexi's support to drop their weapons in Russian; Jesse approached Alexi from the rear while he was busy trying to activate the switch that was no longer effective.

And Michael Westen was saved by a kiss.

He was also saved by an ambulance that was waiting nearby. Later that day, the surgeon told Fiona that the massive infection that was eating his body from the inside out could have killed him in another ten minutes.

He had no idea how he'd managed to survive for as long as he had.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

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"What does that mean?" Fiona asked the physician's assistant.

Nothing good, Jesse knew. Nothing good at all. He watched Sam hold Fiona's shoulders so she wouldn't collapse. He doubted she was even aware of his presence or the trembling in her body.

He'd watched two teams of medical personnel work on Mike's inert form. Physicians and nurses reacted with the same methodical, frantically controlled, life-saving mode he'd seen a different group use for Dani, but it was clear Mike was teetering on the edge of life and death.

The gunshot wound was severely infected. Jesse had been right behind the gurney and watched from the ER doorway as a physician removed the bandage on his stomach; the putrid stench told its own frightening story of infection.

Right now, Mike was being race-wheeled to a surgical suite a few steps away while the PA answered Fiona's questions.

"Yes, it is very serious. Respiratory distress is a manifestation of severe sepsis or septic shock. Resuscitation and supporting his cardiac and respiratory functions are-"

"Are you trying to keep his entire body from shutting down?" Fiona asked suddenly. "Is that what you're saying?"

The PA looked at Fiona and paused a breath "Yes. We are. We'll do our best. There's a family waiting room behind you to the left."

Jesse looked as Sam caught Fiona's limp form. She hadn't fainted; it was as if her life force abandoned her for a moment. He held her steady before they all walked to the room they'd been directed to.

Twenty minutes later, Madeline Westen arrived because Sam had called her. Jesse noticed Maddie's arrival infused Fi's posture with her spine again. Nate arrived shortly after that.

"Go, both of you," Maddie directed. "Michael is in surgery and I understand that's going to last at least an hour, then he'll be in recovery. It'll be hours before anyone can see him, and you know the only person they'll let in is Fi, so you two go take care of yourselves. We'll be right here. And bring Dani back with you, Jesse, so I can congratulate you two together."

He smiled, kissed her cheek and left. Sam sat down next to her. "You'll just have to put up with mission stink, Maddie."

She sniffed. "Oh no, I won't. Go clean up then you can come back. You need to be fumigated."

Sam was pleased that got a smile from Fiona. He guessed it could be a long time before he'd see another one.

#

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When Jesse left the hospital his only thought was to get to SecuriCorp to see Dani. He found Raines ordering her to go home and rest. He was happy to help her comply. It had seemed like months instead of days since he had seen her, and he was desperate to be with her again. Jesse hoped he didn't appear as desperate as he felt, at least to Raines.

Since the moment she'd nearly died for him, he'd been magnetized by her. He could not stay away from her. Knowing she was his for the rest of his life only strengthened the magnetic bond, and knowing she shared it equally had turned his heart into her servant.

Jesse nodded to Raines and held the door for Dani. "You going to be here long?"

Raines had already told Dani he could finish without her help. "No, Dani's done all the hard work but I need to touch base with Langley about a couple of things and then I'm going home."

Raines watched them leave and blew out a breath. He was thankful nothing had happened to Porter, because he had the sense, if something had, he would have lost Dani, too.

He'd recovered from the desperation he'd experienced when the ops began. The thought that he might lose his wife shut down every critical thinking skill he possessed when he learned she'd collapsed and was being taken to the hospital.

She was no longer in the hospital, but back at their residence. She'd suffered a slew of wicked side effects from the new cancer treatment-back pain, nausea, cramping, high blood pressure, anxiety and kidney problems, and, she'd suffered them all at once. Briefly, she lost sensation to her arms and legs and could not move. He wasn't sure who was more frightened, him or her, but now that she had pushed through the overall weakness, she was herself again, and he was thankful.

She shooed him out the door to see what his operatives had been doing.

What they'd done was nothing short of incredible.

With the exception of Westen's medical situation, Raines was astonished by what 10 highly skilled, highly trained, highly capable individuals had accomplished in removing the nastiest of long term clandestine sabotage of American intelligence.

After the operation to free Michael from the Russians concluded and Michael was taken to the hospital, Dani methodically conducted clean-up tasks.

Carnahan and Peterbaugh had been debriefed and were now on leave. Axe, Porter and Westen would be adding to the layer of reports as soon as they were able, at least, he hoped Westen made it through and could report.

Sophia Valdez had also been debriefed in her hospital room. The topical environment that aggravated Westen's infections had also affected her, however she had improved and should have been released by now.

More than 150 individuals in the CIA, the DEA, the FBI and several individuals in the DIA had been arrested and were incarcerated. Raines was under no illusion that they had arrested everyone who should have been arrested, but network that linked them together no longer existed, and the financial resources within Buller Senior and Buller Junior's grasp had been confiscated.

Buller Senior would be bound for Guantanamo as soon as all the legal kinks were unkinked. The fishing and yacht companies he and his son operated had been stripped of arms and drugs of such an enormous quantity that it provided a unique photo opportunity for the DEA office in Miami.

The DEA generously thanked the US Coast Guard for their assistance on the op. Neither the CIA or the FBI were mentioned. Raines' former partner and his family had returned to Virginia; his status was unclear currently, but Raines believed when his case was examined as a body of work, his loyalties could not be questioned.

The Sinaloa cartel operative had interjected herself in their operation with the DEA's unknowing assist. She'd arranged the swap with the Russians for Michael Westen, while the Russians delivered Buller Junior who was last seen in the capable and lethal hands of one of the most notorious Sinaloa sicarios and his equally vicious assistants. The CIA would be watching to see where various parts of his body might appear over the next six months to a year.

Hector Oaks had committed suicide; his parents' coerced assistance in the Valdez's children's kidnapping was being looked at by legal. His emailed confession tied together individuals previously unidentified in the conspiracy. He expected those arrests had happened several hours ago.

George Anders, banker extraordinaire in the Caymans, had disappeared with a lot of money that had been tracked to various individuals in south Florida with Russian surnames. Raines was of the belief Barry Burkowski alerted him to the CIA interest but that couldn't be verified. Oswald Patterson had disappeared with someone named Sherry.

The Russian Spetsnaz black ops team that was part of a larger Russian group operating in Mexico was currently held at the US Penitentiary II in Coleman, while those with larger paychecks than Raines tangled with the Russians about their disposition. Ivan Boskov and Oscar Markov had disappeared, he suspected, back to Russia or Mexico.

There were still some details to be attended but those could wait. For now, it was time to thank SecuriCorp for its support and assistance in the operation and deal with personnel issues with Langley.

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Jesse was already in bed when Dani joined him. She slid in next to him and stretched, cat-like, along his warm, smooth, solid, muscular length. He responded immediately as did she, but the moment blanketed by exhaustion from more than 60 hours of adrenaline highs and lows took its toll on desire.

Their bodies were not willing to go where they wanted. She nuzzled his lips with hers and he sighed against her cheek. "Tomorrow, Dan," he promised. She could only agree with a quiet "mmmm."

When she woke in the darkened room she glanced at the ceiling where one of Jesse's gadgets illuminated the time. It was after 1 p.m. She'd slept for nearly 16 hours. As she stretched, he turned to see him watching her, and turned to kiss him. She promptly forgot what had been on her mind a second ago when she'd been looking at the ceiling.

He raised up and tenderly caressed her cheek and teased her with soft kisses, kisses that moved down her neck to her collarbone with its fresh pink scars, but then he cupped her breast and she felt her heart thud in her chest at she saw the look in his eyes.

"You are . . . so beautiful," he whispered against her lips, leaving a kiss there before he moved to taste the sweetness he held so carefully. She thought she might shatter, but he was there to make sure they shared the luscious moment together, one body in complete harmony with the other.

"I do not know," she said much later, "how you can do this to me every time."

"I thought it was you, doing this to me."

And so they conducted the delicious experiment again and the only thing they could agree on was they should keep trying to figure it out.

From somewhere across the room a phone chirrped. "That's mine," Jesse said. "They can leave a message."

"We should check on-"

"I already did. He's still in ICU."

"Then . . ."

He smiled. "I'll get it if you agree we need a vacation. Or a honeymoon."

"I agree," she smiled back.

"So the perfect . . .?"

"A secluded beach? Privacy, definitely. And far, far away."

"Is the South Pacific far enough away?"

"Mmhhhmm."

#

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It had been seven and a half weeks since Michael's surgery, and he was to be released today. The lengthy stay was the result of several relapses, including a bout of pneumonia that seemed more frightening than Fiona could have imagined.

The hospital care service wanted him to move to a rehab facility for at least another three to work with physical therapists to regain his strength and agility, but he'd been quietly, firmly and adamantly against that.

She wouldn't argue with him; she was so thankful he was alive and healing, but there was something wrong. She could see it when she watched him. And she'd spent hour upon hour watching him.

He didn't return the gesture. He stared into space. She would kiss him hello and he would smile but the emotion behind it never reached his eyes. She would say "I love you, Michael," and he would say it, too, but he couldn't say her name. He would have basic conversations, expressing needs or wants but nothing more.

If the television was on in the room, he stared out the window and away from it, so she turned it off and left it off. She brought him books and he thanked her,but they remained unopened.

He dealt with those around him by sleeping. He escaped from whatever had taken hold of him by closing his eyes. This was more than just being in a recovery phase; it was as if he'd removed himself from those around him even though his scarred and bandaged body remained with them. All was not well with Michael; she couldn't identify it, but she knew it existed. He was too calm. Too quiet. Too muted. He was someplace else, and she wanted him back.

Raines had quietly spoken to her and Madeline after he'd interviewed Michael for the final debrief. His analysis? PTSD. Post traumatic stress disorder.

Madeline listened and remained quiet, but Fiona could see she agreed. "He acted like this after you turned yourself into the FBI," her mother-in-law said. "I hated it, and then we got him back. Like it never happened."

The typical course of treatment, Raines explained, was to talk to a psychiatrist, but they all knew that would never happen.

It troubled her that Michael did not look healthy or look like himself.

There was an explanation, his surgeon explained to her. After his final visit with Michael, she'd followed him out of the room and asked to speak to him. That afternoon, she was sitting in his office, learning more than she'd expected. Michael had coded, nearly died, three times during his surgery. They had gotten him back, and he had survived, but many who had that experience had similar responses, he explained. He also urged her to have Michael seek psychiatric help, and she could not explain why that would never happen.

She'd explained what she learned to Maddie, Sam, Jesse, Dani and Nate last night.

Michael had lost weight, muscle mass and coordination following the surgery that had removed not only a bullet but the infected flesh that surrounded it that poisoned his system. For several weeks, they had been seriously concerned with his kidney function, and Fiona had learned, painfully, to leave the room when the renal specialist came to speak with him.

She walked into the room as a nurse was handing Michael a pile of release instructions. When the woman left, Fiona walked over to give him a kiss. "I brought the Charger. I thought you might like to ride in it."

"Oh, yeah?"

By the time a hospital volunteer reappeared with the wheelchair required for all patients upon discharge, Fiona had gathered up his personal possessions. She'd brought a pair of his jeans and a polo shirt for him yesterday and nearly gasped when she saw how much he'd had to cinch up the belt on the jeans. He'd lost so much more weight than she'd believed he had.

He didn't like getting into the wheelchair, but he did. At least that much seemed like the old Michael, she thought.

After he got seated in the passenger seat in the Charger, she looked over at him. "You'll be feeling much better as soon as we're home."

"I missed the loft."

She glanced back to him and waited a heartbeat. "Not the townhouse?"

"No. Can we go to the loft?"

She turned the key and the Charger roared to life. "Sure."

By the time she had driven them to the loft, then unlocked the gate and opened it so she could drive the car in, Michael had dozed off. She touched his arm. "We're here."

He straighened up and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, we're here." He had an amazingly difficult time opening the passenger side door by himself, and it had been agonizingly painful for her to watch him take a step at a time to climb to the top step by the loft door. She unlocked it and went in to open the doors to the deck.

No one had been here in a long time. Sam had left; he'd been playing boy toy again. The loft was dusty. The bed was empty except for the bedding and pillows wrapped in dry cleaning plastic that had been left there.

Fiona sighed. All of this was . . . a lifetime ago.

At the end of the counter, a crisply preserved orchid sat, dry and yellow. The refrigerator was empty. When she turned back around she found Michael sitting in his green chair, looking at the upstairs office.

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

He didn't hesitate this time. "I want to stay here."

"Don't you want to come home with me to the townhouse?"

"Can't I stay here?"

"Of course. But . . . I . . . need . . . to get you some yogurt." She tried out a smile on him, but it didn't result in a response.

When her phone vibrated in her pocket, she reached for it. It was Sam. "So are you guys home? Can I come over?"

"We're at the loft."

"The loft?"

"I need to get Michael some yogurt."

"Be right there, Fi."

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Yogurt was in the fridge. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Peanut butter. Raspberry jam. Apples. All things Michael liked. And a 12 pack for Sam.

Michael was still sitting in the green chair when she returned from buying supplies. Sam helped her put them away and grabbed a beer. He was standing at the counter next to the fridge watching as Fiona finished making the bed.

"Thanks, Fi," Michael said.

She turned and looked at him and smiled. It was the first time he'd used her name in two months. "Sure."

"Are you going back to your place now?"

She froze then looked at Sam. He closed his eyes briefly, then walked to the loft door and left, closing the door behind himself to give them privacy.

"My place?"

"Yeah. I'm kinda tired."

"Do you want me to go away?"

"Yeah. I'm tired now."

"All right."

She walked over and leaned down to kiss his lips; he barely responded. Then she kissed his cheek and his forehead before she turned and left. Grabbing the bag she'd left by the door, she was relieved to find Sam sitting on the top step.

She sat down next to him and let the tears roll down her cheeks as she turned her wedding ring in circles around her finger. He put his arm around her and gave her a hug then kissed her forehead.

"I'm staying with him. I won't leave, okay?"

She nodded and swiped at her tears.

"Fi, do you trust me to take care of him?"

"Of course."

"Then give me a couple of weeks before you come back."

"You've thought about this."

"Yeah, I've seen this. I've dealt with it myself. I've got a friend here who can help, and Jesse and Nate. But you and Maddie need to stay away for now. OK? And_ you_ need to take care of yourself."

She nodded. "I know."

"Here." He dug into his pants pocket and retrieved his car keys. "Take my car, use the AC. We don't need you getting sick, and that baby needs his daddy."

She smiled and handed him the Charger keys. "_His_ daddy? That could be _her _daddy."

"What do you want? Girl or boy?"

"Michael's child. And Michael."

"Okay, then you be his wife, and I'll be his friend."

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Father Hector Famosa Garcia came to the priesthood through his military service.

He'd been a Navy SEAL, had served with Sam Axe, and whether it had been a combination of his childhood experiences or his adult life that had led to the seminary, he was thankful. In the early days of his priesthood, he discovered his unique background had provided him with spiritual ability to help those returning from wars, and there were so many, many men and women in this area who had served.

Because his parish was small, it allowed him the freedom, with his bishop's blessing, to work with those suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome. There were so many varieties, but in the end the suffering was the same.

He volunteered three days a week at the VA, and worked with individuals when their families, at the end of their emotional tethers, requested it.

Several years earlier, he and Sam renewed their friendship, but this request of Sam's was dear to his heart. Sam had a number of issues in his personal life that he'd never dealt with; he hoped his desire to help his friend would open a door or a window to that.

The residence was not what he'd expected, but he understood the loft was safe place for Sam's friend.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and Sam looked down with relief on his face and good cheer in his voice.

"Hey, good to see you, Hec. Come on up."


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

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"I don't think it's PTSD," Father Hector said, "but it's a relative known as ASD or Acute Stress Disorder. Sam filled me in on what happened two months ago and I think Michael's current state of health complicates all of this. I talked to Michael earlier today, and I understand why you are all so concerned for him.

"Also, I'd like you to keep in mind that he has received any number of life-saving drugs, some of which have side-effects that could still be complicating this. Depression is a well known side effect of several drugs I can think of. As you can see, I am not a physician. I know you are deeply concerned, and please understand I am not qualified to make this assessment. I am speaking only from my observations after spending several years working with people who have suffered all manner of injuries and manifest the same kind of pain and loss that Michael does.

"In many ways, if he could articulate it, and he may at some time do that, but for now he's unable. But, if he could now, he would tell you it seems like he has missing parts of his life. Only you will be able to identify what that is, and you'll see a pattern emerge.

"ASD is a lesser term situation where a person feels detached from their body. It's a kind of dissociative amnesia where memory is lost or there's a problem recalling the past. The textbooks will tell you it can last from two days to four weeks, but from what I've observed, I think it lingers longer than that, depending on a person's physical condition. Michael needs rehabilitative physical therapy, that's very obvious. I saw what he keeps at the loft, the weights, the incline board, the punching bag, running shoes, so those things were already a part of his life that he needs. To regain his health, his physical fitness, just that alone will go a long way toward helping him heal.

"What I want to emphasize to all of you is how important each of you is, because the one thing essential to anyone healing from ASD of PTSD is to have supportive friends and family members, and I can see Michael has that. Drug or alcohol use will exacerbate the problem, and people in pain often self-medicate, so be aware and be careful for him."

Fiona laughed. "Then Sam will need to get rid of the beer at the loft."

The priest smiled. "Perhaps."

"Will we get him back?" Nate wondered, "or is he going to be a zombie forever?"

"Now, Nate," Madeline chastised, "Michael zombied before when Fi was in prison and he came back."

That was news to Father Hector. "How long ago did that happen? What did you do?"

"Let's see," Madeline thought for a moment, remembering. "It was right after Fiona turned herself in to the FBI."

Dani remembered the date. "That was ten, almost eleven months ago."

"At the time, he wasn't sleeping, he wasn't eating. He was just sitting and staring. It made me crazy, so I yelled at him and made him eat some food and I opened one of my sleeping pills and stirred it in his spaghetti sauce. It knocked him out, and he finally slept. When he got up, he was more like himself. Not perfect, because he was so worried about Fi."

"No, he was a pain," Jesse remembered.

Madeline looked over at him. "Is that when you were fighting in the garage?"

"Wasn't much of a fight," Jesse said. "I got fed up and slugged him. He calmed down after that."

Father Hector smiled and looked around. "Anyone else deliver tough love?"

Fiona put her hands over her baby-sized baby tummy. "I slugged him, too."

"Why?" Father Hector wondered, clearly amused.

"Because he wasn't taking care of himself, he wasn't sleeping or eating and he was grouchy and I didn't think he deserved to be grouchy. He wasn't in prison, I was," Fiona explained.

"And that worked, too," Dani remembered, smiling. "The next morning he brought us coffee and Sam beer and apologized, then Jesse embarrassed him and asked if you bruised his cheek."

"Yeah," Jesse said. "That was fun. He turned red."

Father Hector smiled. "Everything I've heard here gives me great hope that all of you will be able to help Michael come back into his life. Just be yourselves. Help him get stronger, make sure he keeps the doctor appointments I know he has, and please feel free to call me whenever you have a question or just want to talk."

He looked at Fiona then and spoke softly. "Your family and friends are here. Shall we bless your child now?"

She'd asked to speak with him privately, earlier in the evening when he first arrived at Madeline's house. She'd told him that she and Michael wanted their marriage blessed but were waiting until after the operation they were involved in to be over, and now that it was, despite Michael's condition, she had a great need to have their unborn child blessed.

She discovered her pregnancy a month ago when she realized she had been so focused on Michael she'd not paid attention to the small changes taking place in her own body. After verifying her suspicion with a drugstore kit, she'd made an appointment with the gynecologist who saw her when she suffered the miscarriage.

When she learned she was three or three and a half months pregnant, she was a bit awed. That meant it had happened shortly after she recovered from the miscarriage.

She'd told Madeline, but she couldn't risk disappointment by telling Michael. She hoped that he might notice her changing shape since it seemed to be more obvious with each passing day, but he hadn't.

The doctor accepted her desire to be uninformed as to the sex of her child; she'd explained why her husband wasn't with her when she asked. She hoped before much more time passed, he would be able to share this with her. It was the single thing saving her grasp of the future with Michael, and she needed as many protections as humanly and heavenly possible.

"This is a new formal rite in the Church," Father Hector said, "but mothers and fathers have been praying for healthy children to be born since time began."

When he finished, he blessed Fiona and the child she carried, and the small gathering of people who loved Michael was quietly moved by the simple beauty of the priest's words.

He'd provided new hope for all of them, hope that had been tested while Michael fought for his life and struggled to survive.

#

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_Two Months Later_

"Mikey, you got to see that endo-something doctor today at 11 and then you got the renal doc at 2, so we better get cleaned up and get out of here. Damn, this place needs air."

Sam was dripping sweat. This was not the first time in recent days he'd wondered how much it would cost to add an AC unit in the loft. It was late summer in Miami and between the humidity and the current lack of a breeze, he was miserable.

_Clunk. Clunk. _Mike's two thirty-pound weights hit the wood floor. Sam was still using the 20 pounders.

They'd been following a muscle building routine for beginners, and Michael had just moved from the beginners set of reps to the intermediate today. Sam was following along and appreciating what was happening to his own abs when he wasn't complaining about how hot he was or which knee hurt or how thirsty he was.

"Okay. You want to take the shower first or cool down?" Michael asked. His face was red, he was dripping sweat, too. But he looked healthy, truly healthy for the first time in what seemed like a small eternity in the Westen world. They'd crossed the threshold between ill and good health in last week or so. It felt like an accomplishment worthy of an Olympic medal in Sam's not so humble opinion.

"Nah, you go. I need to call Nate and tell him to come later today."

Nate was Mike's only consistent running partner, and now that Jesse was back from Bora Bora or wherever the hell he'd gone, he'd join them again after he got whatever project was waiting for him taken care of at SecuriCorp.

It was an interesting personality dynamic for Sam to observe, on days his knees weren't killing him. He was due for another cortisone shot in the left one, he knew, because he could feel it. Hell of a thing, getting old, creaking. On the other hand, it was a rare opportunity to best Mike at something, not that he'd say that out loud. Nate could say it, though, and did.

What amused Sam was the difference in Mike's behavior by who he was running with. It had taken a month to move from walking to running, but they'd done it.

Nate used that little brother chatter to rag on him or he'd run backward so he could harass Mike, face to face, to go faster until Mike's temper started elevating, then he'd turn and jackrabbit ahead of him, laughing at his older brother's annoyance. Jesse just brought out Mike's intensely competitive nature by being himself. Jess just ran slow and steady and it was all Mike could do to keep up.

Yes, Sam was satisfied the results had been positive.

Father Hector had been to visit at least once a week, appreciably to see Sam, but to also check Mike's progress. Yesterday he'd told Sam something Sam had thought about himself. Hec thought the gunshot and the severity of the subsequent infection played the dominate role in Mike's ASD.

The priest came to that conclusion after learning more about his childhood, youth and military career, and his life as a burned spy in Miami. Mike might have occasionally gotten off track in his life, but he'd been able to return to center every time because he'd been lucky to have those few, solid people who brought him back. That required an individual spirit that was a gift of birth or some indefinable human element that could be recognized but not fashioned.

It was his mother and his wife who formed the core of love that kept him centered, whether he was able to recognize it or not, Hec said. Sam thought about that and while he didn't disregard Maddie, he believed it was Fiona who'd consistently held him together, and it had been like that since they'd met, he knew.

Mike was almost looking like himself again. He was still a lot thinner than he'd been, but he was so much stronger now. He was sleeping well, too, unlike the first weeks back at the loft when Sam observed, from his vantage point in second level office, that Mike was riding his nightmares, fencing with enemies and boxing invisible demons. At least he wasn't crying "Fiona" in his sleep these nights. That plaintive cry for her had about killed him to listen to for the first month he'd stayed here.

Unfortunately, Mike had yet to remember he was married.

On some level, Sam knew he knew it, because he'd see him spinning his wedding ring on his finger in a nervous gesture. But, there was a disconnect there so Sam was watching and waiting to see what would trigger remembrance.

He'd cataloged observances as Michael remembered other things. The Rangers. Old enemies. CIA assignments in Germany. Some stupid thing his old man said once. Almost everything and anything except Fiona.

Sam didn't understand that.

And he didn't think she understood, either, because he checked in with her often. Several times a day often.

She needed it, and Sam needed to tell her what was happening with Mike.

He called her from the deck when Mike was sleeping; he called her while he was waiting for Mike at doctor's offices. He called her after her baby doctor visits, and it just about broke his heart every time he had to tell her that Mike hadn't asked about her yet. He always used that word, if only to make himself feel better: _yet._

Father Hector advised him to be patient; he told him it would happen, but Sam was impatient for Fiona.

He told Madeline it was the most difficult part of what he was doing here, not being able to tell Fiona her husband asked about her. Leave it to Maddie, though. She'd done something about that. It was just a matter of waiting to see when Mike picked up that envelope.

Mike grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face and arms then slung it around his neck and headed to the fridge.

Sam reached for his phone to call Nate.

He'd just punched in Nate's number when he saw Mike close the refrigerator door and notice the envelope with his name on it. Sam closed his phone slowly to watch what would happen next.

Mike had pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and was drinking it when he spotted the envelope propped against the dead yellow orchid sitting at the end of the counter.

It had been sitting there for a week.

His mother had written his name on it. He looked at the handwriting and frowned, then opened the flap that hadn't been sealed and pulled out the wrinkled note with the handwritten message.

_Even before I knew your real name I loved you. Before I should have, I trusted you, because I've always known your heart. You do what's right, no matter the cost to you._

_And I've learned that when you love a spy, you have to be willing to make that sacrifice, too. At times your job has made it hard to be with you, but it's never shaken my faith in you. I can't let you ruin anyone's life to save mine. I have to force you to tell what you know. If you don't, you won't be the man I love. Do the right thing. _

_I love you, Michael. Forever. _

If he hadn't been standing next to the tall stool, Sam knew he would have slumped to the floor as his knees buckled under him. Mike sat there staring at the words on the paper. Finally, Sam approached and stood on the opposite side of the bench that served as a counter.

He looked up into Sam's face.

Awareness, clarity and pain washed Michael's blue eyes.

"I handcuffed her to that wall."

Sam nodded and watched him study the note with concentration. He looked up at him again.

"She was in prison."

Sam nodded and watched as tears tracked down his face, mingling with the sweat.

"And she lost the baby."

He confirmed that for him with a nod.

Michael rested his elbows on the counter and put his face in his hands and wept.

It might be the final stage of Michael Westen's cathartic return to his life, but Sam could not deal with this.

He walked over to the door and stepped outside, closing it behind himself before dropping to sit heavily on the top step with his head in his hands and renewed his own acquaintance with tears. It was fine when they belonged to someone else, but not Sam Axe because Sam Axe didn't cry.

By the time he could compose himself and walk back inside the loft, he found Michael standing at the counter with his phone his hand. He looked over at Sam.

"She's not answering."

"She had a doctor's appointment."

"Is she okay?"

"Just a regular appointment, yeah."

Mike looked at the phone as if he was seeing it differently. "Thanks. I need to get one of these."

"Yeah."

"I need to see her."

"We should clean up first."

"I need my DL back."

"Yes."

#

#

#

Fiona opened the door after leaving her sample. Step one, every visit. Leave a sample. And that was easy to do these days because her burgeoning baby was resting heavily on her bladder and there was no controlling the uncontrollable. It was annoying.

She smiled when she realized Dani was waiting outside, next in line, holding her own pre-labeled cup, and then she smiled even wider when she realized Dani was blushing red, everywhere.

"Who are you seeing?" Fiona asked.

It was the same OB-GYN Fiona was seeing.

"I'll see you in the waiting room then."

"Okay." Dani smiled and disappeared into the bathroom Fiona had just left.

Fiona couldn't explain it, but one of the best things that had happened to soothe her battered heart in the last few months was watching Jesse and Dani's relationship, their marriage, grow. It gave her a peaceful sense of happiness she couldn't explain.

It wasn't envy, it was pure joy in watching them be in love with each other. A person would have to be blind to miss how utterly devoted they were, yet at the same time, how cautious they were about displaying their emotions in public or in front of others.

They'd recently returned from their honeymoon in Tahiti, and Dani had invited her to come for dinner two nights ago. It had been a wonderful respite to be around them, and Jesse seemed very interested in the antics of her unborn child who appeared to be trying to figure out how to make an early escape, given how active he or she was. The maternity dress she'd worn was a soft, comfortable knit that made every foot or elbow move clearly visible.

"Soccer player," he'd teased.

"Or ballerina," Dani said.

"Feels more like a kung fu fighter tonight," she'd told them as he excused herself again to use the bathroom.

When Dani came into the waiting room, Fiona removed her oversized bag from the chair next to her she'd been saving. The room was filled with all manner of expectant mothers and children. Dani sat next to her and smiled.

"Can I be happy for you?" Fiona asked.

"I think so," Dani said.

They traded appointment information and Fiona agreed to wait for Dani so they could leave to have lunch together.

Fiona wasn't pleased that she gained four pounds since last week, not pleased at all, but Dani was as giddily and deliriously happy as any woman who wanted a child could be. Even with everything that had happened with Michael, Fiona understood the emotion completely and was happy for her friend.

She'd seen Dani on her phone after she'd parked her car and knew she was talking to Jesse.

"I asked him to join us, but he can't," Dani said. "He's happy."

Fiona gave her a quick hug. "I am so, so happy for you, for both of you."

They stopped at a restaurant close to Carlitos to enjoy fresh fruit salads and grilled chicken. It was a leisurely, pleasant and relaxing time that both women thoroughly enjoyed.

#

#

#

"No, I'm not calling her. She's fine, and she'll be back when she's ready to come home. She's having lunch with Dani. You can wait. She's been waiting for you."

"Please, Jess?" Michael asked.

Jesse smiled and shook his head.

Sam had dropped Michael at his townhouse and then called Jesse who'd left work to go check on him because Mike realized Fiona's car was gone and wanted to go look for her.

"He's kinda crazy at the moment, but not the bad crazy, more like nervous, first date crazy," Sam said when he called Jesse.

As soon as Jesse saw Mike, he could see he was back from wherever he had gone, and welcomed him home as a brother would welcome a brother who had been gone for a long, long time.

That didn't mean, however, Jesse would help him pressure Fi. "Just chill, man. She'll be back soon."

Michael realized he had no way to get in touch with her. He didn't have a cell phone, he didn't know where she was, even though Sam said she had a doctor's appointment; he was, simply, in panic mode. He needed to see Fiona, and she wasn't there.

Jesse exerted calming influence. "Patience, Mike. Patience. The world has turned a few times since you got hurt."

The problem for Michael was that the floodgates of his memory had opened.

Fiona's note was in his shirt pocket, anchoring his heart. He was awash with emotion and pain that he'd tamped down into an almost manageable whole that he could control.

Almost.

When the door to the townhouse opened, Jesse got up. "That's my cue."

He greeted Fiona at the door with a kiss to her cheek and saw Dani waiting behind her. "Hey, babe," he said as he pulled the door shut behind himself.

#

#

#

At first, she thought she might be dreaming when she saw him standing there. It wasn't until he walked toward and she could see his eyes that she realized Michael had returned to her.

He held her gaze with his and, as he approached, he dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her hands. "I'm sorry, Fi. I feel like I'm thirteen years old again, waiting for the prettiest girl in the room to say hello to me. I don't know how many ways to say I'm sorry, but I'll say them all, every way you want. I love you, wife."

He pressed a kiss to her baby belly and dropped his head, waiting for her to show some sign of her forgiveness for the pain he had given her.

She put her hands on his head and then slid them to the side of his face so he would look up at her. "You are going to have to stand up because I can't bend down that way and I need you . . . "

Later, she could not be sure how long they had stood there, their arms around each other. She knew from Sam's reports, he was not one hundred percent clear of some of his health problems, but he was so strong and solid and felt like the man she had been missing so desperately for months now. It had taken a good swift kick from the child in her womb to separate them and her heart filled with a full measure of joy to see the expression on Michael's face as he realized what had just happened. He bent down then to kiss her baby belly.

"When did you remember?" she asked when he rose again.

He reached into his pocket and handed her the note she'd written so long ago. She recognized it, of course.

"I love you, Fiona. Forever."

#

#

#

"Oh, good they're all here," Madeline was giddily happy.

Doug, the man she'd met on the beach in North Carolina while she, Nate, Ruth and Charlie were under federal protection, had come to visit and to get to know the rest of Maddie's family and friends.

They'd planned the meal around blessings. Doug, a retired hospital chef, had been eager to offer his help, and Maddie had welcomed it. She was equally sure the rest of her family would be far happier with Doug's contributions than hers, although she was highly skilled at combining takeout menu items.

This morning, Michael and Fiona and Jesse and Dani had their marriages blessed by Father Hector. Both couples had been married in civil ceremonies, but this was a gift they would give each other as witnesses to each other's marriage.

Hours ago, they had all assembled at the church while two brief ceremonies were held, followed by Michael Gabriel Westen's baptism.

Father Hector had smiled. "It is a powerful thing to name a boy for two archangels."

A year ago, Madeline could not have predicted this joyful harmony in her life, and none of the people she loved could have predicted she would stop smoking.

That had started when Fiona had told her she and Michael had married. It had continued when she'd been relocated by the CIA to a remote area where it simply wasn't possible to run to the corner to buy a pack of cigarettes. And then there was Doug. He didn't care to kiss a woman with cigarette breath. That had been quite the sales point.

Dani entered first, with Jesse behind her. She was getting to the waddle stage, Maddie noted. Then came Fiona, then Michael who was carrying his son's car seat. The sweet boy was sound asleep, but Charlie was anxious to see his baby cousin again.

Madeline had a sense of peace she had not experienced ever in her life. It was a lovely thing. Michael noticed and came over to give her a hug. "You look happy, mom."

"I am. You look happy, too."

"I am."

_FINI_

_For Erin, a lovely Irish lass._


End file.
